Hours at home : a popular monthly, devoted to religious and useful literature

Reuqiohs km Useful Literature.

Vol. I. — JUNE, 18G5. — No. 2.

GERMAN PAINTERS OF THE MODERN SCHOOL.

OTEEBEOK.

, If I were asked what a religious artist
of the middle ages was like — If any one
would wish to learn what was the devout
life and the earnest work of an old Ital-
ian painter — I would, without hesitation,
point to Overbeck. Here is a man the
very type not only of what history tells
us the spiritual painter was, but also the
personal realization of that which the
mind conceives the Christian artist should
be. It has been my privilege not unfre-
quently to visit the studio of this venera-
ble man; to listen to his hushed voice,
solemn in earnestness of purpose, and
touched with the pathetic tones which
rise from sympathy ; to look upon that
head gently bowed upon the shoulders,
the face furrowed with thoughts which
for eighty years have worn deep chan-
nels, the forehead and higher regions of
the ■ brain rising to a saint-like crown ;
and never have I left those rooms,
where Christian Art found purest exam-
ples, without feeling towards the artist
himself gratitude and affection. The
world, indeed, owes to such a man no
ordinarv debt. The Art of Europe had
Vol. I.

fallen, and Overbeck believed that to him
was entrusted its restoration. His life has
been a mission, his labor a ministration,
and as years rolled on a gathering sc-lcm-
nity shadowed round his work. That
work was the building up of the ruined
structure of Christian Art. And thus
Overbeck became the founder of the mod-
ern school of religious painting, and his
name is now identified' with the forms of
pure and spiritual beauty which clothe
the Christian faith. As a father, then, of
the so-called "Christian school of paint-
ing," purified from paganism, and deliv-
ered from the carnal allurements of cor-
rupt renaissant masters, Overbeck will
now claim our reverent yet critical regard.
The life of Overbeck, like that of other
quiet, self-contained, and inwardly-cen-
tred men, has been unmarked by startling
incident. Cornelius, as we have seen in
our memoir of last month, was born at
Dusseldorf in the year 1787; Overbeck,,
his brother in Art, his companion in labor,
his fellow-citizen in Rome, came into tho
world two years later, in the ancient,
gothic, and gable -built town of Lubeck,
7

102

German Painters of the Modern School.

[June,

a free port on the Baltic. It has often
been said that nature never repeats the
same types, nor history recurs to identi-
cal situations ; yet between the Art epochs
and the Art leaders in Rome of the six-
teenth and the nineteenth centuries, rise
analogies which strike the mind as some-
thing more than accidental. In these pe-
riods, divided by an interval of three cen-
turies, were alike existent two opposing
schools, the one distinguished by spiritual
expression, the other by physical power.
In Italy of the fifteenth and the sixteenth
centuries, Fra Angelico, Perugino, and the
youthful Raphael, clothed Christian Art
in tenderest lineaments of beauty. On
the other hand, Signorelli and Michael
Angelo, of the opposite school, attained
unwonted grandeur through massive mus-
cular development. And so we shall see,
likewise, it happened within living memo-
ry, when new birth was to be given to no-
ble Art, that the two contrary yet ofttimes
cooperative principles from the first pre-
vailed, the one steadfast in spirit, the other
stalwart in the flesh ; the one which in the
middle ages, had acknowledged Raphael
for its disciple, the other which was proud
to recognize Michael Angelo its giant mas-
ter— the one which, in our own day, in-
spired the loving devotion of Overbeck,
the other which commands the stern ser-
vice of Cornelius. And thus, as we have
said, history is here, in remarkable analo-
gies, repeating herself. The world of mod-
em German Art, as that of old, divides it-
self into two hemispheres : Overbeck rules
as the modern Raphael over the one ;
Cornelius, as a German Michael Angelo,
bears iron sway over the other. Over-
beck is the St. John which leaned hi love
on the bosom of our Lord ; Cornelius is
St. Peter, strong as a rock on which to
build the Church. And as with Michael
Angelo followers were wanting, so with
Cornelius, he walks in that "terribil via"
wherein few can venture to tread. The
lot of Overbeck is more blessed. Like to
Raphael, his forerunner, he draws by love
all men unto him ; near to him, through
fellowship of endearing sympathy, warm-
ed by the emotion which beauty, akin to
goodness, in the universal heart begets.

The biography of an artist such as
Overbeck is not so much the record of
events as the register of thoughts, the
chronicle of those specific ideas which
have given to his pictures an express char-
acter, and the recognition of the living
faith which begets followers and creates
a school. Overbeck, in the year 1808, at
the age of twenty-one, went to Vienna, to
pursue his studies in the academy of that
city. Already we find his mind brooding
over the thoughts which fifty years later
had become visibly engraven on his coun-
tenance, and were legibly transferred to
his canvas. Overbeck in Vienna soon
grew impatient of cold academic teach-
ing, and to the much lauded pictures of
Guido and others of the eclectic school he
was indifferent. Enthusiasm he reserved
for the early masters of Italy and Ger-
many, whose earnestness and simplicity
taught him how far modem painters had
wandered from the true and narrow Avay.
Other students he knew to be like mind-
ed. The zeal of the youthful artists seems
to have overstepped discretion. Refusing
to take further counsel of the director of
the Academy, and despising the classic
style then in vogue at Vienna, Overbeck
and his associates broke out into revolt,
and were in consequence expelled from
the schools. This happened in the year
1810, and immediately the rebels, nothing
daunted, betook themselves to the more
congenial atmosphere of Rome, and there
chose the deserted cells of the cloister of
San Isidoro for their dwelling and studio.
The Art-brotherhood grew in zeal and in
knowledge, and for ten years these paint-
ers kept close company, mutually confirm-
ing the common faith, all putting their
shoulders together to meet the brunt of
opposition.

The numerous works which crowd the
busy life of Overbeck, afford evidence of
teeming invention and untiring indus-
try. These creations are divisible into
three classes : outline compositions of the
nature of cartoons, frescoes executed in
churches or palaces, and lastly, oil or
easel pictures. When first I visited the
studio of Overbeck, some sixteen yeara
ago, then located in the palace of the

1865.]

Bishop Berkeley in America.

115

As theology itself, so also theological
style, has not yet been emancipated from
the old, cold, dialectic, and formally
learned drawling of scholasticism. In so
far as there has been any reaction it has
for the most part been toward the oppo-
site mistake of putting style upon stilts.
It has sought not so much to be charmed
by the beauty of chaste simplicity as to
propel itself by the momentum of wind.
Its poetry is the flaming bombast of a
youth's iirst verses, rather than the ripe,
warm-hearted, prophet-like utterances of
patriarchal simplicity. Hence the pulpit
style of the land, with much that is worthy
of all acceptation, exhibits on the one ex-
treme wing a prosy dullness, and on the
other a windy sensation character. Every
attempt at beauty of style where the ses-
thetical sense has not received true cultiva-
tion, tends only to make both the speaker,
and, so far as his example has weight, the
truth itself ridiculous.

It must not be forgotten that the es-
thetic taste in the people needs as much
to be cultivated as any other part of their
nature. This can only be accomplished

by a leader who is himself living under
its power.

The Christian ministry also, indirectly
at least, owes something to the literature
and the literary taste of the land. Litera-
ture is no profane tlnng, which the minis-
ter may ignore, but falls in the sphere of
those high interests of earth which arc to
be sanctified by Christianity, and trans-
fused with its life, spirit, and beauty. It
is not intended as any disparagement to
the other learned professions when we
say, that in our restless and rushing age
and country, the conservation of eloquence
in public speaking as well as elegance in
literature rests mainly with the Christian
ministry. Where, then, if not from the
pulpit shall the ears of the people be
pleasantly greeted with the pure, fresh,
and classic ring of their own vernacular
language. Here must be cultivated and
conserved the high interests of aesthetic
taste, as well for the sake of the truth
proclaimed, as for the true elevation of
the taste of those who are habitually
listening to it.

BISHOP BERKELEY IN AMERICA.

On the twenty-fourth of January, 1729,
the town of Newport in Rhode Island,
which then numbered about 6,000 inhab-
itants, and was regarded as "the most
thriving flourishing place in America for
its bigness," welcomed to its capacious
harbor, "a pretty large ship," which had
come from over the seas, bearing among
its passengers, a distinguished minister of
the Church of England.

Such dignitaries, like professors from
Oxford in our day, were then by no means
common in these Puritan colonies, and it
is not surprising to find that the town was
thrown into great excitement by this un-
expected arrival, and that the intelligence
was at once communicated to one of the
three newspapers of New England, which
were published in Boston.

Here is the announcement which ap-

peared in the columns of the New England
Weekly Journal:

"Neicport, Jan. 24, 1729.

" Yesterday arrived here, Dean Berkeley
of Londonderry, in a pretty large ship. He
is a gentleman of middle stature, of an
agreeable pleasant aspect. He was ush-
ered into the town with a great number of
gentlemen, to whom he behaved himself
after a very complaisant manner. 'Tis said
he proposes to tarry with his family about
three months."

By what kind of magnetism a ship laden
with this eminent ecclesiastic could have
been drawn into the harbor of Narragan-
sett, has been a matter of some question,
and various stories have been circulated to
account for the occurrence.

All who are acquainted with the out-

116

Bishop Berkeley in America.

[J une,

lines of the Bishop's life, are aware that
he was filled with truly apostolic zeal for
the spiritual welfare of the American abo-
rigines. He had devised a plan for estab-
lishing in the Summer Islands or isles of
Bermuda, an endowed college. He had
secured from the British government a
charter for the proposed establishment
under the name of "St. Pauls," over
which he proposed in person to preside,
with the expectation of being useful in
two ways — by educating the savage Amer-
icans, and by training up a ministry for
the English Church in the Colonies.

"Ten pounds a year," he says in his
prospectus, "would, if I mistake not, be
sufficient to defray the expense of a young
American in the college of Bermuda, as
to diet, lodging, clothes, books and edu-
cation, and if so, the interest of two hun-
dred pounds may be a perpetual fund for
maintaining one missionary at the college
forever ; and in this succession, many it is
hoped, may become powerful instruments
for converting to Christianity and civil life
whole nations who now sit in darkness
and the shadow of death, and whose cruel,
brutal manners are a disgrace to human
nature."

Such were the hopes which inspired the
benevolent Dean, and such were the plans
which he determined to accomplish in
spite of the derision of Dean Swift or the
opposition of Sir Robert Walpolc.

But how came the president of St. Pauls
to be landed in the harbor of Newport ?

Among the traditions which have ob-
tained currency, one of the most detailed is
given in Updike's History of the Narragan-
sett church. The substance of it is that the
captain of Berkeley's vessel could not find
the island of Bermuda, and having given
up the search for it, steered northward till
he discovered land unknown to him, but
which proved to be Block Island at the
entrance of Long Island Sound. Two
men who there offered their services as
pilots, informed the ship-master that he
was near the town of Newport, and told
the Dean that Rev. Mr. Honeyman, an
English missionary, was the minister of a
church near by. So without delay a land-
ing was effected. But this story and sev-

eral other traditions, are contradicted by
the Dean's own words. It appeal's from
his letters that he set sail from Gravesend
with the intention of proceeding directly
to Rhode Island. Here he intended to
make arrangements for providing his pro-
spective college with the necessary rations
and probably to establish a correspondence
with influential New Englanders. New-
port, at that time, bade fair to be a com-
mercial city of the first importance, and
for this and other reasons, it was certainly
an inviting place for the president of St.
Pauls to select as the centre of his conti-
nental acquaintance and operations.

The Dean, at this time, was forty-five
years old. For several years he had cher-
ished his favorite scheme, and he now be-
lieved himself so near its accomplishment
that the time had come to open the pro-
ceedings in the scenes of his expected
labors. Parliament in 1725, had granted
a charter which the king had approved,
and a gift of twenty thousand pounds had
been promised the establishment, on con-
ditions which were in every way favorable
to the beneficient purposes of the projector.
But Sir Robert Walpole, then First Lord
of the Treasury, contrived innumerable
excuses for withholding this sum, without
openly refusing to pay it, and he thus
succeeded in frustrating a scheme for which
the Dean was ready to sacrifice everything.

Just before setting sail from England,
Berkeley had been married to a daughter
of Hon. John Forster, speaker of the Irish
House of Commons, and his wife accom-
panied him on the voyage. The college
party included also Mr. John Smybert, a
meritorious artist, Messrs, James and Dal-
ton, who are described as gentlemen of
fortune, and Miss Handcock who was
probably a friend of Mrs. Berkeley.

One of the gentlemen in this company,
the artist, has left a name which will long
be remembered in American annals. He
was probably the first person, permanently
residing in New England, who devoted
himself to the pencil. John Watson, a
Scotch artist, not many years before, had
established himself in Perth Amboy, a
settlement which seemed to the specula-
tors of those days, much more likely than

18C5.]

Bishop Berkeley in America.

117

the island of Manhattan, to become the
metropolis of the middle colonies. Berke-
ley had known Smybcrt in Italy, and had
invited him to join the Bermuda enterprise
its a professor of the Fine Arts. In the
pictorial representation of the city of Ber-
muda, the Athens of Utopia, a museum of
the Fine Arts was conspicuous, and in this
castle of the air, Smybcrt, without doubt,
was expecting to preside. Though he
never saw the projected institution, it is a
very curious coincidence that his influence
is still felt, like that of his great patron, in
one at least of the colleges of New Eng-
land. "He was not an artist of the first
rank," says a competent critic, " for the
arts were then at a very low ebb in Eng-
land j but the best portraits which wc have
of the eminent magistrates and divines of
New England and New York, who lived
between 1725 and 17-51, are from his pen-
cil." His influence, it is also said, may be
traced "in the works of Copley, Allston,
and Trumbull," if this is so, then the costly
edifice now erecting as a school of the
Fine Arts, in New Haven — a repository
for the paintings of Trumbull, and for other
collections, may fitly remind us of Smy-
bert's early work. It ought certainly to
receive as the first, if not the best of its
treasures, a painting which is said to have
been sketched on board "the pretty large
ship," and finished soon after in Newport.

This picture was given to Yale College
in 1808, by Isaac Lothrop, Esq., of Plym-
outh, through the agency of two or three
other gentlemen in Massachusetts. It had
been preserved in Boston in a room occu-
pied by the Smyberts, certainly by the
son, who was also a painter, and probably
by the father.

Happily the subjects of the picture are
even more interesting than its history. It
represents the philosopher of Ireland, and
his companions of the famous voyage.
The Dean himself is standing at the end
of a table, dressed in his gown and bands,
having his hand upon a copy of Plato, one
of his favorite authors, and apparently
dictating to an amanuensis. His wife, and
another lady, supposed to be Miss Hand-
cock, arc seated, the latter holding a child
in her arms. This is perhaps the boy of
Vol. I.

whom the Dean in 1730, wrote like a fond
papa: "our little son is a great joy to us,
we are such fools as to think him the most
perfect thing in its kind that we ever saw."
Sir James Dalton is acting as the amanu-
ensis of the Dean, Mr James is standing"
behind the ladies, the artist himself in
represented, and the remaining person is
supposed to be a friend of his, Mr. John
Moffat, of Newport. In all there are eight
figures, painted upon canvass nine feet by
six. In whatever light we regard it, this
painting is a precious heir-loom.

We must return, however, to the prin-
cipal character whom it represents. Tho
Dean, who expected to stay about threo
months, actually resided in Newport near-
ly two years and a half. The few let-
ters from his pen which have found their
way into print, addressed to his friend
Prior, indicate great anxiety in respect to
the grant which had been promised him
for the college. But in spite of the hopo
deferred, he did not become despondent
nor remain inactive in his temporary home.
He frequently preached and discharged
the duties of a pastor in the Episcopal
church at Newport, which still preserves
in an organ, a memento of his later gen-
erosity ; he formed a club or association
of literary men, out of which in due time,,
sprang the excellent Eedwood Library £
he bought a farm, two or three miles from
the town, which he named Whitehall, and
stocked with cows and sheep for the pro-
spective college; he built a house,, he
composed a theological treatise, and he
began an acquaintance with men of mark
in the Colonies. In short, he behaved like
a true philosopher. His impressions of
the new country were so favorabLe, that
he says in one of his letters, he should
like to change the seat of the college to
the main land, were he not afraid that the
proposal to do so would cause the appro-
priation to fail. It was said by his friend
Dr. Johnson, that New York would have
been the site of his choice, but no. evidence
is given in support of this conjecture,
which has now been so often repeated,
that it is generally accepted as a fact.

One of Berkeley's friends, after long
delays, drew out, in an interview with Sir
8

118

Bishop Berkeley in America.

[June,

Robert Walpole, the duplicity of that
adroit politician. "If you put this ques-
tion to me," said the premier, "as a min-
ister I must and can assure you that the
money [promised to the college] shall
most undoubtedly be paid as soon as suits
with public convenience ; but if you ask
me as a friend, whether Dean Berkeley
should continue in America, expecting the
payment of £10,000, I advise him by all
means to return home to Europe, and give
up his present expectations."

When the Dean heard this he did "give
up " and went back to Ireland.

During his stay in Newport he had com-
posed, as we have intimated, "Alciphron,
or the minute Philosopher," a defense of
the Christian faith, after the manner of
the Platonic dialogues. The opening pas-
sages of this treatise seem to reflect his
disappointments and the manner in which
he bore them. " I flatter myself, Theages,"
he begins, " that before this time I might
have been able to have sent you an agree-
able account of the success of the affair
which brought me into this remote corner
of the country. But instead of this I
should now give you the details of its mis-
carriage, if I did not rather choose to en-
tertain you with some amusing incidents
which have helped to make me easy un-
der a circumstance which I could neither
obviate nor foresee. Events are not in our
power, but it always is to make a good
use even of the very worst. And I must
needs acknowledge that the course and
event of this affair gave opportunity for
reflections that make me some amends for a
great loss of time, pains, and expense."

This treatise, we may here remark, is
one of the most widely known in this
country of Berkeley's various writings —
not excepting his Theory A Vision, which
profoundly interests a certain class of
scholars, nor his essay on the virtues of
Tar-water, which we have reason to be-
lieve is laughed at much oftener than it is
consulted. It is a bibliographical item of
some interest that early in the present cen-
tury an edition of the Alciphron was pub-
lished at the instance of Dr. Dwight. As
an inducement to subscribe the Doctor
sets forth a brief account of the work, con-

cluding with a remark that the treatise
"may be confidently recommended as a
performance of the first merit, to all who
love to read the best reasonings on the
most important subjects."

Visitors to Newport may still trace out,
we believe, near the sea shore, the sequest-
ered nook of rocks where this remarkable
work was composed, and the chair, which
the Dean was accustomed to sit in, is still
preserved with veneration, by a well-
known Episcopal clergyman.

But the farm of the Dean produced other
fruits. On his return to England he pre-
sented it to Yale College. This gift was
so important as to demand an extended
notice. Among the more noteworthy per-
sons with whom the Dean became ac-
quainted, during his American residence,
were the Rev. Dr. Samuel Johnson, an
Episcopal minister in Stratford, afterwards
first President of Columbia College, New
York, and the Rev. Jared Eliot, a Congre-
gational minister in Killingworth, Conn.
Both of these men were graduates of Yale
College. The former had been one of the
tutors in a most critical period of the col-
lege history, while the latter was still a
member of the college corporation. Both
are said to have solicited Berkeley's aid
for their needy alma mater. .What part
Mr. Eliot had in securing a donation is not
clear, but the agency of Dr. Johnson is
circumstantially obvious.

No sooner did the missionary at Strat-
ford hear of the arrival of the Dean (with
whose writings he was already familiar)
in the neighboring parish of Newport,
than he set out to pay him a visit. It ap-
pears, from his autobiography, which is
still extant, that his visits were repeated,
and there is other evidence in abundance,
that between these two excellent men,
alike in their studies and their tasks, as
well as in their ecclesiastical connections,
a friendship sprang up, which endured in
freshness and vigor till the good bishop of
Cloyne was laid in the dust. These sen-
timents of friendship were handed down
as an inheritance from fathers to sons, and
the second Dr. Berkeley and the second
Dr. Johnson perpetuated the paternal inti-
macy, as well as the paternal virtues

1865.]

Bishop Berkeley in America.

119

Many of the letters addressed by the son of
bishop Berkeley to the younger Dr. John-
son, are still preserved, and a still more
interesting relic of this family intimacy
may be found in many letters still extant,
from the widow of the bishop. To these
American correspondents she wrote very
fully, usually in a thoroughly devotional
spirit, often inclosing in her letters volum-
inous extracts from religious authors, Fen-
elon, Guyon, and especially from Hooke,
the compiler of the Roman history. These
transcriptions she seems to have thought
would be useful in America.

When Berkeley was about setting sail
for England, Dr. Johnson made him a fare-
well visit, and asked him to send books
from the old world for the college in the
colony of Connecticut. Dr. Stiles in his
Literary Diary says, that Johnson persuad-
ed the Dean to believe " that Yale College
would soon become Episcopal, and that
they had received his material philoso-
phy," and he adds, " Col. Updike, of
Newport, an Episcopalian intimately ac-
quainted with the transaction, told me that
the bishop's motive was the greater pros-
pect that Yale college would become
Episcopal than Harvard." But no trace
of such an expectation has been found, so
far as we are aware, in the writings of
Berkeley or Johnson. Both of them,
we believe, were liberal minded enough
to support and encourage a wisely man-
aged seminary even though among its
trustees no churchman was included. As
to the adoption of the Dean's metaphysics,
Rector Clap says that the college "will
probably always retain a favorable opin-
ion of his idea of mateiial substance as
not consisting in an unknown and incon-
ceivable substratum, but in a stated union
and combination of sensible ideas!"

These timely solicitations were soon fol-
lowed by great generosity. The Dean
60on sent over a collection of books, the
finest, fays an excellent judge, "that had
ever been brought to this country." The
catalogue is almost worth printing at this
time to show what an excellent library
was composed of, say a century and a
quarter ago. We are afraid that the gifts
of our modern deans to the colleges "out

west " will not always rival the Berkeley
invoice. It included between eight and
nine hundred volumes, Greek and Latin
classics, works in divinity, philosophy,
history, medicine, and literature. They
were shipped at London, May 30, 1733,
consigned to Mr. Andrew Belcher at Bos-
ton, by Capt. Alden, master of the Dol-
phin. A full list of the books is preserved
in the college library at New Haven, and
most of them can still be identified, though
they are no longer kept, as at first, by
themselves. President Clap estimates the
value as at least £400 sterling. He says
the donation was made partly out of the
Doctor's own estate, but principally out
of monies which he procured from some
generous gentlemen in England.

In addition to these books, the Dean sent
to the college a deed of the farm at White-
hall, directing that the income which it
yielded should be devoted under speci-
fied conditions to the encouragement of
classical learning. This tract of land,
about ninety-six acres in extent, with a
dwelling house, stable or crib (in a part
of Newport afterwards called Middletown)
he had bought of Joseph and Sarah Whip-
ple, soon after his arrival, for the sum of
£2,500 in the current money of New
England. He also built a dwelling-house
upon the premises. The deed to the col-
lege was dated July 26, 1732. In 1762
the farm was leased, in pursuance to the
advice of Rev. Mr. Geo. Berkeley to Capt.
John Whiting, for the term of 999 years.
Some slight alterations were made in the
original instrument, and a second deed was
executed in August of the following year.
It directs that the income of the farm shall
be paid to the three students of the said
college, "towards their maintenance and
subsistence during the time between their
first and second degree ; such students be-
ing to be called scholars of the house, and,
during that space of time, being hereby
obliged to reside, at least three quarters
of each year, between their first and sec-
ond degree, in said college ; and that the
said students or scholars of the house, be
elected on the sixth day of May (if not on
a Sunday) but if it shall happen on a Sun-
day, then the election to be on the day fol-

120

Bishop Berkeley in America.

[June,

lowing, such election to be performed by
the President or head of the college, for
the time being, jointly with the senior
episcopal missionary of that colony or
province of Connecticut, for the time be-
ing, that is to say, he who hath been long-
est upon the mission in the said colony,
the candidates to be publicly examined by
the said President or Rector and senior
missionary, two hours in the morning, in
Greek, and in the afternoon, two hours in
Latin — all persons having free access to
hear the said examination : and it is here-
by declared and intended, and it is the true
intent and meaning of the said George
Berkeley, that those who appear to be the
best scholars on said examination, shall
be, without favor or affection, elected ;
and in case of a division of sentiment in
the electors, the election to be determined
by lot — and if the senior episcopal clergy-
man shall not attend, then any other epis-
copal clergyman of said colony shall be
entitled to elect, in course of seniority —
and if none of the episcopal clergy shall
attend, then, and in such case, the election
to be performed by the President or Rector
of the said college for the time being :
Provided always, that whatever surplus
of money shall arise during the vacancies
of the said scholarship, the same to be
laid out for Greek and Latin books, to be
disposed of by the said electors on the
said day of election to such of the under-
graduate students as shall show them-
selves most deserving by their composi-
tions in the Latin tongue on a moral sub-
ject or theme proposed by the electors."

These generous gifts were received at
Yale college with a gratitude which has
been increasing as the years have rolled
on. The Trustees repeatedly placed on
record their acknowledgments, and Berke-
ley who soon became Bishop of Cloyne
repeatedly expressed his interest in the
Institution which he had benefitted. Two
letters containing such indications of his
Gontinued sympathy are given in Chand-
ler's Life of Johnson. Two others, which
so far as we remember have never yet
been printed are worth inserting here.
They were addressed to Rector Clap.
Here follows the first :

Rev. Sir,

Mr. Bourk. a passenger from New Ha-
ven hath lately put into my hands the let-
ter you favored me with, and at the same
time the agreeable specimens of learning
which it enclosed ; for which you have my
sincere thanks. By them I find a consid-
erable progress made in astronomy and
other academical studies in your college
in the welfare and prosperity whereof, I
sincerely interest myself and recommend-
ing you to God's good providence, I con-
clude with my prayers and best wishes
for your society.

Rev. Sir,

Your faithful, humble servant,
July 17, 1850. G: Cloyne.

We have no copy of President Clap's
letter to Bishop Berkeley, but he remarks
that the bishop frequently received intel-
ligence concerning the effects of his dona-
tions; especially "from an Irish gentle-
man who was present at one of his exam-
inations and carried to him two calcula-
tions made by his scholars, viz.: one of the
comet at the time of the flood, which ap-
peared 1680, having a periodical revolu-
tion of 575)^ years, which Mr. Whiston.
supposes to have been the cause of the
deluge, and another, of the remarkable
eclipse of the sun in the 10th year of
Jehoiakim, mentioned by Herodotus, Lib.
i, cap. 74, and in Usher's Annals." This
is probably the mathematical paper re-
ferred to in Berkeley's letter.

The second letter is of like import:

Cloyne, July 25, 1751.
Reverend Sir :

The daily increase of learning and re-
ligion in your seminary of Yale college,
give me very sensible pleasure and an
ample recompense for my poor endeavors
to further those good ends.

May God's Providence continue to pros-
per and cherish the rudiments of good
education which have hitherto taken root
and thrive so well under your auspicious
care and government.

I snatch this opportunity given me by
Mr. Hall to acknowledge the receipt of
your letter which he put into my hands,
together with the learned specimens that
accompanied it, and to assure you that I
am

Very sincerely, Rev. Sir,

Your faithful well-wisher and humble
servant, G: Cloyne.

1865.]

Bishop Berkeley in America.

121

P. S. — The letter which you mention as
written two mouths before your last, never
came to my hands.

From the time of the donation until now,
the Dean's bounty has been continuously
enjoyed by the successive generations of
students at New Haven, and has fostered
without doubt, the love of classical study.
Those who receive the chief prize are
termed "Scholars of the House," in ac-
cordance with the founder's designation, a
phrase which he is said to have employed
in accordance with the Dublin usage, to
indicate that the pensioners receive an in-
come from the house or college.

The list includes many excellent schol-
ars. It is a striking coincidence that one
of the two persons to whom the first award
was made in 1733, was Eleazer Wheelock,
who founded at Lebanon and afterwards
removed to Dartmouth college, an "In-
dian charity school," in the spirit if not
upon the plan of the president of St. Pauls.

The examinations for the Berkeley prize
are still held upon the appointed day and
are conducted by the president. For more
than three quarters of a century after the
foundation, the senior Episcopal mission-
ary, or the Episcopal minister longest resi-
dent in Connecticut, attended the exami-
nation, and in connection with the head of
the college signed the diploma of appoint-
ment. Thus, from 1734 to 1753, the
bishop's friend, Rev. Samuel Johnson,
placed his name, every year, with but one
exception, to the certificate of examina-
tion. In later years, an Episcopal minister
has rarely been present. The surplus
money is divided among meritorious un-
dergraduates for excellence in Latin com-
position. The announcement that such a
prize would be awarded and the result of
the contest were made until recently in
Latin on the bulletin of the college. Dr.
Stiles and Professor Kingsley seem espe-
cially to have enjoyed these opportunities
for the use of the true scholastic tongue.
Instances might be given of the character-
istic Latinity of both these scholars.

When the intelligence of the bishop's
death in 1753, reached this country, Ezra
Stiles, then a tutor in Yale college deliv-
ered a commemorative discourse in Latin

before the assembled college. It is still
preserved among his papers. We are
amused to see that he quoted the well-
known couplet of Pope, one line of which
was inscribed on the philosopher's grave,
and has been copied, we believe, by almost
every one else who has written on Berke-
ley. At a later day, the college still fur-
ther honored their benefactor's name by
bestowing it upon a newly erected Hall
for the residence of the students.

In various other institutions of learning
and religion, the reverend name of Berke-
ley is perpetuated. We have already allu-
ded to the organ in Trinity church at
Newport, and the foundation of the Red-
wood Library. We ought also to mention
that he gave to Harvard college a collec-
tion of the Greek and Latin classics,
(mostly the best editions) unfortunately
destroyed in the fire of 17G1, by which
that library sufFered so severely ; that he
wrote a letter of excellent advice respect-
ing the establishment of Kings or Colum-
bia college, in New York ; that he founded
a prize for the encouragement of the study
of Greek in his own alma mater, the Uni-
versity of Dublin; and that, like a true
scholar, he passed the closing days of his
life at Oxford, and now reposes in the
chancel of Christ Church. An Episcopal
school of Divinity established in Middle-
town, Connecticut, si ill further commem-
orates the name of Berkeley.

It is sometimes said that Dean Berkeley
became thoroughly conversant with Amer-
ican institutions and affairs ; but however
this may have been, his knowledge was
only to a very limited extent derived from
personal observation. Dr. Dwight in his
Travels, incidentally says that the Dean
visited "several parts of the continent,
particularly New England, New York,
New Jersey and Pennsylvania." This can
hardly be so. We have no traces of hlra
to the west of Rhode Island. He did not
visit his friend Dr. Johnson. Moreover,
we have the following contemporaneous
assertion, which a skillful antiquary has
exhumed in a pamphlet by Rev. Noah
Hobart, published at Boston in 1751.

" Tis likewise true that bishop Berkeley,
a member of that venerable body, resided

122

Bishop Berkeley in America.

[June,

in New England for some time, and that
upon his return he preached the annual
sermon — gave an account of the religious
state of the country, but whether he was
personally acquainted with any number
of the most eminent of our ministers, I
confess I do not know. In the general it
is well enough known that this ' great and
good man,' as Mr. Beach very justly styles
him, partly through indisposition, and part-
ly through a close application to his be-
loved studies, lived a very retired life while
in this country. He saw very little of
New England, was hardly ever off Rhode
Island, never in Connecticut, nor at Bos-
ton till he went thither to take passage for
London."

Now that Newport has become the re-
sort of wealthy and fashionable people, it
is curious to find that bishop Berkeley was
once charged with expecting that his farm
would be the site of a great city, and that
some intimate friend of his repelled the
charge with vehemence. Burnaby in his
Travels in North America, published in
1775, tells the following story :

The Dean had formed a plan of building
a town upon the rocks which I have just
now taken notice of, and of cutting a road
through a sandy beach which lies a little
below it [the rocks] in order that ships
might come up and be sheltered in bad
weather. He was so full of this project
as to say to one Smibert, whom he had
brought over with him from Europe, on
the latter's asking him some ludicrous
question concerning the future importance
of the place, "Truly you have very little
foresight, for in fifty years time, every
foot of land in this place will be as valu-
able as the land in Cheapside. The Dean's
house, notwithstanding his prediction, is
at present nothing better than a farm-
house, and his library is converted into
the dairy."

To this a reviewer in the Gentleman's
Magazine, (possibly the bishop's son
George) rejoins as follows: "Far from
projecting a town, &c, the building, and
the only building, which Dean Berkeley
had planned was a tea-room and a kitch-
en, not even a bed-chamber. For what
he said to his designer, (or rather painter)

Smibert, a painter without imagination, as
to the probable value of the ground, there
is not the slightest foundation."

No one thinks of Berkeley in these days
without recalling his celebrated verses on
the future greatness of America. Mr. Ver-
planck, in an address which he delivered
in New York, in 1818, introduced this fine
prophecy to his hearers, with the remark
that he did not remember ever having
" seen or heard the verses referred to in
this country." This seems strange in 1865,
for they are now as familiar as household
poetry. If the bishop of Cloyne had done
nothing but write these lines, he would
have been entitled to high honor from our
countrymen as a poet and a seer ; but when
we remember the purity and beauty of his
life, the vigor of his intellect, and the ex-
tent of his generosity, we may safely say
that he is entitled to a foremost place in
the affectionate gratitude and admiration
of all educated Americans.

REST.

There remaineth therefore a rest to the peoplo of

God."

Rest for the weary one —

The toiler and oppressed :
Earth's clays of labor done,

How sweet that heavenly rest !

Rest from the cares of life,

That furrow every brow ;
Filling with thorns and strife,

The soil where peace should grow.

Rest from the griefs of earth,

Which here the spirit try :
Ah, sorrow hath no birth

In realms beyond the sky.

Rest from disease and pain —

The heritage of sin :
Who can compute the gain

Earth's sufferers there shall win!

Rest from the sins that here
With suffering fill each path ;

Darkening each hope with fear
Of some avenging wrath.

Rest from the fear of death,

Besetting every good :
Lurking in every breath —

Hid in our daily food.

Rest — blissful, endless rest !

Seek it, 0 sinner, soon :
How fearfully un blest,

If thou should 'st lose that boon !

1865.1

A Folded Leaf.

123

A FOLDED LEAF

My table holds an ancient book —

So old, its leaves are brittle and brown :

And right in the midst — O solemn sign! —
Is a lingered leaf that is folded down.

Other pages are soiled and dim,
Others arc blotted by holy tears :

This leaf only is folded down,

A steadfast mark midst the changing years.

Folded, 'twill not unfolded stay,
But turns to itself, a broken leaf;

Likj a soul that can not stand erect
From bending over some hidden grief.

So, when I open the ancient book,
It shows the leaf of the solemn fold :

I close it — the leaf seems willing to bear
The pressure that wears it, as of old :

And I think of the speaker of manly words,
Ready to suffer for utterance sake,

Who bravely points to a sacred truth,

And points forever, though heart should
break.

The books of God are many, we know ;

And many the sacred truths they say :
The servants of God have died to write

Words which herald the near new day.

There are books that we love for their fing-
ered leaver-,
Where tear-stains and pencil-lines eloquent
dwell :
But this, with the one leaf folded down —
What is it ? and whence ? and speaks it
well?

And the precious words of the folded leaf,
Patiently waiting beneath the fold —

Are they worthily uttered ? chosen well ?
Gold from rubbish ? or gold from gold ?

Is it the tale of the valiant man

Who has wandered far in lands unknown ?
The book of the student, quiet and quaint,

Who grappled with doubt, and fought it
alone ?

Is it the book of the poet — first bom ?

The casket that holds the life of his life ?
The volume he dreamed of, long ago,

Foreseeing the fame, and forgetting the
strife ?

Is it the stanza, concise and complete,

That, gem-like, gleams with the light of his
soul ;
The last, of a poem that falters in speech,
The last, which flashes forth sudden tho
whole ?

Or is it the book of the man of God,

Who soberly speaks of the god liest things;

Who mourns the wrong in the lives of men,
And yet in the midst of mourning sings ?

And is it the page where, rapt, he tells
Of the City of God descending to men ?

Where the light that shines through its gates
of pearl
Falls, to gleam from his words again ?

Oh, no : this book of the folded leaf
Lay open to eyes that read no more :

'Twas loved by a mother whose ancient grief
Is lost in the light of the shining shore.

Loved from the hour when a vanished voico
Left her in silence and darkness and pain ;

Loved through all sorrows, a joy amidst joys,
A teacher to guide her, and strong to sustain.

It whispered life's meaning ; it told her of
God;

It lifted her soul to the things that are high :
It inwardly blessed her, shedding abroad

A peace unbroken by anguish or cry.

There was more in her life of bitter than sweet;

There were frosts that blasted her joys in

their bloom :

Yet her holiest prayers found answer complete,

And a light ever shone on her path through

the gloom.

'Tis thus with us all : we cry, ' What of the
night?'
God answers, ' The morning cometh ; ' and
lo!
When hope rises, eager, to gaze at the light,
God adds, 'And also the night ' — night of
woe.

He giveth us songs in the night, and then
sleep :
For Christ, Who speaks from the folded leaf,
Saith to us, ' Blessed arc ye that weejj /'

124

How George Neumark Sung his Hymn.

[June,

HOW GEORGE NEUMARK SUNG HIS HYMN.

TnE Thirty Years' War was over, and
Germany rested from blood. Two years
after the peace a young man was living in
one of the narrowest and filthiest lanes of
Hamburg. No one visited him, and all
that the people of the house knew of him
was that for the most part of every day he
played his violoncello with such skill and
expression that they thronged round his
door to catch the music. His custom was
to go out about midday and dine in a low
restaurant frequented by beggars ; for the
rest he would go out in the twilight with
something under his shabby cloak, and it
was always uoted that he paid his bill the
clay after such an expedition. This had
not escaped the curiosity of Mistress Jo-
hannsen, his landlady, and having quietly
followed him one evening, he stopped, to
her dismay, at the shop of a well-known
pawnbroker. It was all plain nowT ; and
the goodnatured woman determined to
help him if she could.

A few days after, she tapped at his door,
and was filled with pity to find nothing in
the room but her own scanty furniture.
All the rest had been removed, save the
well-known violoncello, which stood in
the corner of the w7indow, w7hilst the
young man sat in the opposite window-
corner, his head buried in his hands.

" Mr. Neumark," said the landlady,
" don't take it ill that I make so free as to
visit you; but as you have not left the
house for two days, and we have had no
music, I thought you might be sick. If I
could do anything — "

"Thank you, my good woman," he an-
swered wearily and with a sad gratitude in
his tone. " I am not confined to bed, and
I have no fever; but I am ill— very ill."

" Surely, then, you ought to go to bed ?"

" No," he replied quickly, and blushed
deeply.

"Oh, but you must," cried Mistress
Johannsen boldly. " Now just allow me.
I'm an old woman, old enough to be your
mother, and I will just see if your bed is
all right."

"Pray don't trouble yourself," he re-

plied, and sprang up quickly before the
bedroom door.

It was too late, however ; for the good
woman had already seen that there was
nothing but a bag of straw, and that same
shabby mantle in which he made the eve-
ning journeys.

"My good woman," said Neumark,
quickly, "you are perhaps afraid that I
will not pay the next rent ; but make
yourself easy ; I am poor, but honorable.
It is sometimes hard enough, but I have
never been left utterly destitute yet."

" Mr. Neumark," she replied, with some
hesitation, and after mustering all her cour-
age, " we have little ourselves, but some-
times more than enough — as, for instance,
to-day ; and as you have not been out, if
you w^ould allow me — "

The young man colored deeply again,
rose from his seat, walked up and down
the room, and then, with apparent effort,
said, "You are right. I have not eaten
to-day. I — "

Without waiting for another word, the
landlady had left the room, and in a few
minutes returned laden with dinner.

" You must not take it ill," she began,
when dinner was over; "but you are
surely not a native of our town. Do you
not know any one here ?"

"No one. I am a stranger; and you
are the first person that has spoken to me
kindly. May God bless you!"

"Well, now, if it would not be rude, I
would like to ask you some questions.
Who are you ? W^hat is your name ?
Where do you come from ? What is your
business ? Are you a musician ? Are your
parents alive? What are you doing in
Hamburg?"

Breathless rather than exhausted, she
stopped, and the young man, smiling at
his goodnatured catechist, began: "My
name is George Neumark. My parents
were poor townsfolk of Miihlhausen, and
are both dead. I was born there nine-and-
twenty years ago, on the 16th of March,
1021. There have been hard times ever
since, and I have had to cat, and often first

1805.]

How George Ncumark Sang his Hymn.

125

to seek, my daily bread with tears. Yet
I must not be impatient and murmur and
sin against the Lord my God. 1 know that
lie •will help me at the last."

" But how did you think to get your liv-
ing?" interrupted the landlady.

"I studied jurisprudence; and there I
fear I made a fatal mistake, since both by
disposition and from love to my Saviour I
am a man of peace, and can not take to
these quarrels and processes. Had I un-
derstood my God's will when I commenced
those studies, it had been better. But to
continue my story : for ten years I suffered
hunger and thirst enough at the Latin
school of Schlcusingen, a little town in the
neighborhood of my birthplace, where I
learned that the wisdom of this world will
not bring me bread. Then, at two-and-
twenly, I went to Konigsberg to study
law. It was far to journey, but I fled
from the hideous strife that wasted my
fatherland. I avoided the horrors of war
but only to fall into the equal horror of
fire, and I soon lost by the flames all I had,
to the last farthing, and was a beggar."

" My poor man ! Did not that leave you
in despair?"

" I won't appear better than I was ; and
as I strove in the great city, without friend
or help, my heart sank ; but the dear God
had mercy on me, and if I bore the cross,
I lived well in body and soul."
" Why, what had you to live on ?"
"The gift of God. You must know
that I am a poet, and may have heard that
I have some readiness in playing the vio-
loncello, and by these I found many friends
and benefactors, who helped me indeed
sparingly enough."

" And did you remain in Konigsberg till
you came here ?"

"No," he answered, sighing heavily.
"After five years I went to Danzig, in the
hope of earning bread there, and finding
that a false hope, went to Thorn, and there
succeeded beyond my expectation. God
brought to me many a dear soul that took
me for friend and brother. But for all
that I could find no official position, and
so I determined at last to seek in my na-
tive town what was denied me elsewhere.
Hamburg lay in my way, and as I passed

through it a voice seemed to say to me :
' Abide here, and God will supply thee.'
But it must have been the voice of my
own will : for you know now that things
are not bright with me here."

"But tell me," said the landlady, "what
office do you seek ?"

" If it were God's will, I could earn my
bread at scrivening, or a clerkship of any
sort."

" Then you are not a musician ?"

"Well, I am, and I am not. I can play a
little, but for my pleasure, not to wiu bread.
This violin is my only friend in the world."

" But how do you live ?"

" My good woman," he said, with a faint
smile, " I could tell you much of the won-
derful goodness and mercy of God to me
in all my misery. It is true I have now
nothing left but this dear old violin. But
you know Mr. Siebert ? He has a clerk-
ship vacant, and he is to answer my ap-
plication to-day. I believe it is time for me
to be with him, so you must excuse me."

Nathan Hirsch, the Jew pawnbroker,
dwelt in one of ihe narrow, crooked lanes
that led down to the harbor. He listened
from morning till night to the music of
the steps that crossed his threshold. Late
one evening a young man in a shabby cloak
entered the musty shop.

" Good evening, Mr. Neumark," said
the Jew. "What brings you so late?
Have you no patience till the morning ?"

"No, Nathan; if I had waited till the
morning, perhaps I had not come at all.
What will you give me for this violon-
cello ?"

"Now, what am I to do with this great
fiddle?" drawled the Jew.

" That you know perfectly well, Na-
than. Put it in the corner there behind
the clothes, where no one will see it.
Now, what will you give me for it ?"

Nathan took it up, examined it on every
side, and said, as he laid it down,

" What will I give you ? Is it for two-
pence worth of wood and a couple of old
strings? I have seen fiddles with silver
and mother-of-pearl ; but there is nothing
here but lumber."

126

How George Neumark Sang his Hymn.

[June,

" Hear me," said Neumark. " Full five
years long I hoarded, farthing by farthing,
full five years I suffered hunger and pain,
before I had the five pounds that bought
this instrument. Lend me two on it. You
shall have three should I ever redeem it."

The Jew flung up his hands.

"Two pounds! Hear him! Two pounds
for a pennyworth of wood ! What am I to
do with it, if you won't redeem it ?"

"Nathan" — and the young man spoke
low and strong — "you don't know how
my whole soul is in this violin. It is
my last earthly comfort, my only earthly
friend. I tell thee, I might almost as well
pawn my soul as it. Wouldst thou have
my soul?"

"Why not? And if you did not re-
• deem it, it would be mine. But what
would the Jew do with your soul ?"

"Hush, Jew. Yet the fault was my
own. The Saviour whom thy people cru-
cified has redeemed my soul, and I am
his. I spoke in the lightness of despair.
But I am his, and he will never suffer me
to want. It is hard when I must sacri-
fice the last and dearest. But he will help
me. I will pay thee back."

" Young man, you will not deceive me
with these vain hopes. The last time, did
you not tell me that a rich merchant
would help you ?"

" Siebert ? Yes. I went to him at his
own hour, and he said I came too late :
the place was given to another. Am I to
bear the penalty of the conduct of others ?"

" I deal with you, and not with others,"
returned the Jew, coldly. "Take your
great fiddle away."

"Nathan, you know I am a stranger
here. Remember when you were a stran-
ger, and the Christian helped the Jew. I
know no one but you. Give me but thirty
shillings."

" Thirty shillings ! Have I not said al-
ready that no merchant can give thirty
shillings for a pennyworth of wood?"

" Thou art a hard and cruel man." And
with these words Neumark snatched up
his beloved violoncello and rushed out of
the sbop."

" Stop, stop, young man," cried the

Jew; "trade is trade. I will give you
one pound."

" Thirty shillings, Nathan. To-morrow
I must pay one pound, and how am I to
live ? Have mercy."

" I have sworn that I will not give thir-
ty shillings ; but out of old friendship I
will give you five and twenty; that is,
(you will note) with a penny interest on
every florin for eight days, and for the
next week twopence, and if you can not
pay me then, it is mine. Now, what am
I to do with this great piece of wood?"

" It is hard ; but I must submit. May
God have mercy on me !"

" He is a good and faithful God, the
God of my fathers, and he helped me
much, or I could not afford to lose by
such bargains as this. Twelve pence and
four-and-twcnty pence make six-and-thir-
ty. I may as well take it off the five-and-
twenty shillings. It will save you bring-
ing it back here."

Neumark made no answer. He was
gazing at his violoncello, while the tears
rolled silently down his cheek.

" Nathan, I have but one request. You
don't know how hard it is to part from
that violin. For ten years we have been
together. If I have nothing else I have
it ; at the worst it spoke to me, and sung
back all my courage and hope. Ten times
rather would I give you my heart's blood
than this beloved comforter. Of all the
sad hearts that have left your door, there
has been none so sad as mine."

His voice grew thick, and he paused for
a moment.

"Just this one favor you must do me,
Nathan — to let me play once more upon
my violin."

And he hurried to it without waiting
for an answer.

"Hold!" cried the Jew, in a passion;
the shop should have been closed an hour
ago but for you and your fiddle. Come
to-morrow, or, better, not at all."

"No — to-day — now," returned Neu-
mark. "I must say farewell," and seiz-
ing the instrument, and half-embracing it,
he sat down on an old chest in the middle
of the shop, and began a tune so exquis-

1866.1

How George Neumark Sang his Hymn.

127

itcly soft that the Jew listened in spite of
himself. A few more strains, and he sang
to his own melody two stanzas of the
hymn —

"Life is weary, Saviour take me."

"Enough, enough," broke in the Jew.
"What is the use of all this lamentation?
You have five-and-twenty shillings in
your pocket."

But the musician was deaf. Absorbed
in his own thoughts, he played on. Sud-
denly the key changed. A few bars, and
the melody poured itself out anew ; but,
like a river which runs into the sunshine
out of the shade of sullen banks, he sang
louder, and his face lighted up with hap-
py smiles —
"Yet who knows ? The cross is precious. "

" That's better. Stick by that," shout-
ed the Jew. "And don't forget that you
have five-and-twenty shillings in your
pocket. Now, then, in a fortnight the
thing is mine if you have not redeemed
it." And he turned aside, muttering me-
chanically, " but what am I to do with
a great piece of lumber wood ?"

Neumark laid his violin gently back in
the corner, and murmured, "lit fiat di-
vi?ia voluntas, As God will. I am still :"
and without a word of adieu, left the
shop.

As he rushed out into the night, he
stumbled against a man who seemed to
have been listening to the music at the
door.

"Pardon me, sir, but may I ask if it
was you who played and sung so beauti-
fully just now ?"

"Yes," said Neumark, hurriedly, and
pushed on.

The stranger seized hold of his cloak —
"Pardon me, I am but a poor man, but
that hymn you sung has gone through my
very soul. Could you tell me, perhaps,
where I might get a copy ? I am only a
servant, but I would give a florin to get
this hymn — that was just written, I do
believe, for myself."

"My good friend," replied Neumark,
gently, "I will willingly fulfil your wish
without the florin. May I ask who you
are?"

"John Gutig, at your service, and in
the house of the Swedish Ambassador,
Baron von Rosenkrauz."

" Well, come early to-morrow morning.
My name is George Neumark ; and you
will find me at Mistress Johannsen's, in
the Crooked-lane. Good night."

in.

One morning, about a week after this,
Gutig paid a second visit to Mistress Jo-
hannsen's. Neumark received him kindly.

"Perhaps, sir, you will think what I
am going to say foolish; but I have
prayed over it the whole night, and I
hope I may make so bold — "

"What? Is it a second copy of the
hymn ; of course, you may have it with
pleasure."

"No, no, sir; it is not that. I have
the copy you gave me in my Bible, to
keep it better ; though if it were lost, I
think I have it as well off as the Lord's
Prayer and the Creed. But yesterday —
You won't take it ill ?"

" Never mind ; go on."

" Well, sir, the ambassador had a sec-
retary that wrote all his letters. Yester-
day he suddenly left the house ; why, no
one knew ; but we believed that the mas-
ter found him in default and let him easily
off*. Yesterday evening, as I saw my lord
to bed, he said to me, ' Now that Mr.
Secretary is gone, I know not where to
look for as clever a one.' Somehow your
name came into my mind ; for the secre-
tary lives in the house, and is entertained
at the table, and has a hundred crowns a
year paid down. So I said, ' My lord, I
know some one — ' ' You ! ' he cried, and
laughed; 'have you a secretary among
your friends?' * No, my lord,' said I;
'though I know him, I am much too
humble to have him for a friend or ac-
quaintance.' So, to make a long story
short, sir, I told him all — "

"All?" interrupted Neumark. "And
that you made my acquaintance on the
door-step of Nathan Hirsch, the Jew
pawnbroker, where I was pledging my
violin?"

"Yes, all that," replied Gutig; "and
if I have done wrong I am very sorry ;

128

How George Neumark Sung his Hymn.

[June,

only my -heart was so full. My lord was
not offended, but bid mc bring your hymn
to see how you wrote. • Writing and
poetry both admirable, ' he said, as he laid
it down ; ' and if the young man would
come at once, I would see ; perhaps he
might do.' I was uneasy afterwards lest
you might be hurt, sir; and between that
and wishing you might be secretary, I
could scarcely wait for the morning. The
ambassador likes an early visit, and if you
would pardon me, sir, and think well of
it, you might go to him at once."

Neumark, instead of answering, walked
up and down the room. " Yes,*' he said
to himself, "the Lord's ways are surely
wonderful. They that trust in the Lord
shall not want any good thing." Then
turning to the servant, "God reward you
for what you have done ! I shall go with
you."

The ambassador received him kindly.

"You are a poet, I see, by these verses.
Do you compose hymns only ?"

"Of the poor," said Neumark, after a
moment's pause, " it is written, their' s is
the kingdom of heaven. I never knew
any one who was rich and enjoyed this
world that had written a hymn. It is the
cross that presses such music out of us."

The ambassador looked surprised, but
not displeased. "You certainly do not
flatter us," he said. "But, young man,
your experience is but narrow. Yet you
might remember that our king, Gustavus
Adolphus, though he lived in the state
and glory of the throne, not only com-
posed, but sung and played a right noble
Christian hymn. However, you are poor,
very poor, if my servant's account be cor-
rect. Has poverty made you curse your
life ?"

"I thank the Lord, never, though I
have been near it. But he always kept
the true peace in my heart. Moreover,
the Lord said, ' the poor ye have always ;'
and another time he called them blessed ;
and was himself poor for our sakes, and
commanded the gospel to be preached to
the poor ; and the very poor, as the apos-
tle says, may yet make many rich. It is
not so hard, after all, to be reconciled
with poverty."

"Gallantly answered, like a man of
faith. We may have opportunity to speak
of that again. I hear that you have stud-
ied law. Do you think you could sift
papers that require a knowledge of juris-
prudence and politics ?"

"If your grace would try me, I would
attempt it."

"Well, then, take these papers and
read them through. They contain inqui-
ries from Chancellor Oxenstiern and the
answers I have been able to procure.
Bring me a digest of the whole. You may
take your own time, and when you are
ready, knock at the next door."

IV.

Neumark left - the hotel of the ambas-
sador that 'evening with a radiant face,
and as he walked quickly through the
streets, talked with himself, while a smile
stole across his lips. "Yes, yes; leave
God to order all thy ways."

It was to Jew Nathan's that he took
his way.

"Give me my violoncello," he cried.
" Here are the fivc-and-twenty shillings,
and a half crown more. You need not
be so amazed. I know you well. You
took advantage of my poverty, and had I
been an hour beyond the fortnight you
would have pocketed the five pounds.
Still, I thank you for the five-and-twenty
shillings : but for them I must have left
Hamburg a beggar. Nor can I feel that
you did anything yourself, but were sim-
ply an instrument in the hand of God.
You know nothing of the joy that a Chris-
tian has in saving another, so I pay you
in what coin you like best, an extra half-
crown. Here are the one pound seven and
sixpence in hard money. Only remember
this,

'Who trusts in God's unchanging love,
Builds on the rock that nought can move. ' "

Seizing his violoncello in triumph, Neu-
mark swept homewards with hasty steps,
never pausing till he reached his rooim
sat down, and began to play with such a
heavenly sweetness, that Mistress Johann-
scn rushed in upon him with a storm of
questions, all of which he bore unheeding,

1865.]

How George Neumark Sung Ins Ihjmn.

129

and played and sang; until his landlady-
scarce knew if she was in heaven or on
earth.

"Are you there, good Mistress Johann-
6cn?" he said when he had finished.
" Well, perhaps you will do me the kind-
ness to call in as many people as there are
in the house and in the street. Bring them
all in. I will sing you a hymn that you
never heard before, lor I am the happiest
man in Hamburg. Go, dear good wo-
man ; go bring me a congregation, and I
will preach them a sermon on my violon-
cello."

In a few minutes the room was full.
Then Neumark seized his bow, played a
bar or two, opened his mouth and sang,

*' Leave God to order all thy ways,
And hope in him whate'er betide;
Thou'lt find him in the evil days

Of all-sufficient strength and guide.
Who trusts in God's unchanging love,
Builds on the rock that nought can move.

" What can these anxious cares avail,

These never-ceasing moans and sighs ?

What can it help us to bewail
Each painful moment as it flies?

Our cross and trials do but press

The heavier for our bitterness.

" Only your restless heart keep still,
And wait in cheerful hope, content
To take whate'er his gracious will,

His all-discerning love hath sent ;
Nor doubt our inmost wants arc known
To Him who chose us for His own.

"He knows when joyful hours are best,
He sends them as He sees it meet ;
When thou hast borne its fiery test,

And now art freed from all deceit,
He comes to Thee all unaware,
And makes thee own his loving care. "*

Here the singer stopped, for his voice
trembled, and the tears ran down his
cheeks. The little audience stood fixed
in silent sympathy ; but at last Mistress
Johannsen could contain herself no longer.

"Dear, dear, sir," she began, drying
her eyes with her apron, for there was
not a dry cheek in the crowd, " that is all
like as if I sat in the church, and forgot all
myr care, and thought of God in heaven and

*From the admirable translation in the
"Lyra Germanica " of the well known " Wer-
nur den licben Gott liisst wolten.

Christ upon the cross. How has it all
come about ? You were so downcast this
morning, and now you make my heart
leap with joy. Has God been helping
you ?"

" Yes, that He has, my clear gracious
God and Father! All my need is over.
Only think : I am secretary to the Swed-
ish Ambassador here in Hamburg, have a
hundred crowns a-year ; and to complete
my happiness he gave me five-and-twenty
crowns in hand, so that I have redeemed
my poor violin. Is not the Lord our God
a wonderful and gracious God ? Yes, yes,
my good people, be sure of this, —

4 Who Trusts in God's unchanging love,
Builds on the rock that nought can move.' "

"And this beautiful hymn, where did
you find it, sir, if I may make so bold ? For
I know all the hymn-book by heart, but
not this. Did you make it yourself?"

" I ? Well, yes, I am the instrument —
the harp ; but God swept the strings. All I
knew was this, ' Who trusts in God's un-
changing love;' these words lay like a
soft burden on my heart. I went over
them again and again, and so they shaped
themselves into this song. How, I can
not tell. I began to sing and to pray for
joy, and my soul blessed the Lord, and
word followed Avord like water from a
fountain. Stop," he cried, "listen once
more : —

"Nor in the heat of pain and strife,

Think God hath cast thee off unheard ;

Nor that the man whose prosperous life
Thou enviest, is of him preferred ;

Time passes and much change doth bring,
And sets a bound to everything.

"All arc alike before his face ;

'Tis easy to our God Most High
To make the rich man poor and base,

To give the poor man wealth aud joy.
True wonders still of Him are wrought,
Who sctteth up and brings to nought.

"Sing, pray, and swerve not from His ways,
But do thine own part faithfully ;
Trust His rich promises of grace,
So shall it be fulfilled in thee ;
God never yet forsook at need
The soul that trusted him indeed. "

When he ceased for the second time, he
was so much moved that he put away the

130

Fred, and Maria, and Me

[June,

violoncello in the corner, and the little
audience quietly dispersed.

Such is the story of one of the most
beautiful of all the German hymns, one of
those which has preached the truest ser-
mon to troubled and fretted and despair-
ing hearts. After two years, Baron von
Rosenkranz procured his secretary the
post of Librarian of the Archives at Wei-

mar, and there he peacefully died in his
sixty-first year. He wrote much, verses
indeed almost innumerable, possibly to be
read at Weimar still by such Dryasdusts
as care to look. But the legacy he left
to the Church was the hymn that the sim-
ple-hearted man played when God gave
him back his beloved " Viola di Gauiba."

FEED, AND MARIA, AND ME.

PAET THE SECOND.

I got up early next morning and took
my things out of my trunk, and fixed them
nicely in the drawers, and then I set out
to go down stairs, but there was a door
standing open, and I saw the children were
inside, so I went ins and says I ' Good
morning children,' and then I said good
morning to a nice looking woman who
was dressing one of 'em.

' Can't I help dress 'em ?' says I, for I
saw she had her hands full, and up in the
corner was a handsome cradle, a rocking
away all of itself.

' Thank you ma'am, there is no need,"
says she, ' I've wound up the cradle and
the baby'll go to sleep pretty soon, and so
I shall have time to dress the rest if they'll
only behave.'

'Wound up the cradle?' says I, quite
astonished to sec it a rocking away with
no living soul near it.

' Yes, its a self-rocking cradle,' says she,
'we've all the modern improvements in
this house. The children's Ma ain't very
fond of trouble, and so she's got everything
handy, dumb-waiters, sewing-machines,
and all sorts of contrivances. If you'd like
to go down on the dumb-waiter, I'll show
you where 'tis,' says she.

' The dumb what ?' says I.

'The dumb-waiter,' says she, 'They're
very handy about getting the coal up and
down, and sometimes folks uses them
themselves, if they're tired, or is old ladies
that gets out of breath.'

' What, to ride up and down the stairs ?'
says I.

'Why yes, to save climbing so many
flights of stairs,' says she.

Well, I'd seen so many strange things
in this house, and so many a waiting and
tending, that I thought to be sure a dumb-
waiter was a man they kept a purpose to
carry you up and down them stairs, and
says I, ' If he is dumb I suppose he aint
blind, and he'd see what a figure I should
make a riding of a poor fellow creature as
if he was a wild beast. No, I aint used to
such things, and I guess my two feet's as
good dumb-waiters as I need.'

I see she was a laughing, but quite good
natured like, and says she, " The children's
about dressed now, and if you wont think
strange of it, I'll ask you to mind them a
minute while I go down to get their break-
fast. I shall be right back. And you,
children, you say your prayers while I'm
gone."

' Why don't they eat with their Pa and
Ma?' says I, 'And don't their Ma hear
them say their prayers ?'

'Not since I came here,' says she,
'Their ma don't care about such things
as prayers. I make 'em kneel clown and
say over something, if its only to make
some difference between them and the
heathen,' says she.

' But they go down to family prayers,
I hope ?' says I.

She burst out a laughing, and says she,

1865.]

Fred, and Maria, and Me.

131

1 1 guess there ain't many family prayers
in this house,' says she, 'nor any other
kind o' prayers either. Folks is too busy
a playing cards and a dancing and doing
all them kinds o' things to get time to say
prayers.'

I felt so struck up, that I couldn't say
a word, and I was just a going to run
back to my bed-room and look in the glass
and see if 'twas me or if' t wasn't me, when
I heard a voice close to my ear say, " Find
out if the old lady drinks tea or coffee for
her breakfast."

'Did you speak?' says I to the nuss.

'No ma'am 'twasn't me,' says she.

Then I knew it was the Evil One prowl-
ing round, and no wonder! and I spoke
up loud and strong and says I, ' Are you
an Evil Spirit, or what are you?' ' I didn't
say nothing about spirit,' says the voice,
* its tea and coffee I was a speaking of.'

' La ! its nobody but the cook a wanting
to know what you will have for breakfast,'
says the nuss, 'I couldn't think what made
you turn all colors so. I spose you ain't
used to them speaking tubes.'

With that she puts her mouth to a little
hole in the wall, and then says she 'find out
yourself,' and then says she to me, 'These
tubes is very handy about keeping house.
All Mrs. Avery lias to do is to holler down
into the kitchen what she'll have for din-
ner, and there's the end of it. And it's
convenient for the cook too, for cooks don't
want no ladies a peeking round in their
kitchens."

'Well,' says I, 'I never.' And I couldn't
got out another word if I'd been to suffer.

I went down to breakfast, and Fred was
civil as need be, but his wife didn't say
much, and I was kind of afraid of her a
settin' there in such a beautiful quilted
blue wrapper, and a lace cap and ribbons a
flyin', and me in my old calico loose gown.
And sometimes when I'm scared, I get to
running on, and so I kind o' got to talk-
ing about the house and the handsome
things and says I, ; When I see all these
beautiful things' and the water all so handy
and the gas a coming when its wanted
and going away when 'taint, and the cra-
dle a rocking away all of itself, and them
things to whisper into the wall with, why I

almost feel as if I'd got to heaven. Things
can't be much handier and convenieuter
up there,' says I.

" But when I think again that their Ma
don't hear them children say their prayers,
and dances and plays cards, and don't never
see the inside of her kitchen, and all the
pieces thrown away for want of somebody
to see to 'em, why then I feel as if 'twant
exactly heaven, and as if 'twas a longer
road to git there from here than to git to
the other place.'

Cousin Avery, she looked kind o' be-
wildered now, and Fred, he took up the
newspaper and began to read, and he read
it all the rest of the breakfast time. And
when he'd done, he got up and says he,
* I'm afraid you'll find it rather dull here
aunt,' says he, 'but Maria must take you
out, and show you round and amuse you
all she can;' so he took his hat, and went
off, and Maria, she slipped oft', and I didn't
know exactly what to do, so I went up
stairs to my room and there were three or
four women all around the washstand with
pails and mops a sopping up the water,
and Maria looking on as red and angry as
could be.

" You've left the water running, and its
all come flooding down through my ceiling
and ruined it," says she, and then she mut-
tered something about country folks, but
I did'nt hear what, for I was so ashamed
I didn't know what to do.

" If the old lady hadn't a left the wash-
rag in the basin 't wouldn't a run over,"
says one of them girls, "but you see that
stopped up the holes."

Maria, she went off upon that, and I got
down and helped dry up the carpet, and
kept a begging of 'em all not to think hard
of me for making so much trouble, and
they all was pleasant and said ' twant no
matter.' When I went down they said
Maria had gone out, so I hadn't anywhere
to stay unless 'twas with the children,
and I went up there and the room was all
put to rights and the baby a rocking away
all to himself, and the children a playing
round, and the nuss she was a basting
some work.

'I'll hem that petticoat,' says I, 'if you
think I can do it to suit.'

132

Fred, and Maria, and Me.

[June,

' Oh no, it's to be done on the machine,'
says she, ' but if you've a mind to baste
while I sew, why that will help along
a sight. But I'll put Gustavus into the
baby-tender afore I begin,' says she, 'or
he'll be into the machine ;' so she caught
him up and fastened him into a thing
that hung from the ceiling, and left him
kind o' dangling. So I set down and bast-
ed, and she began to make that machine
go. I'd heerd of sewing-machines, but
I hadn't never seen one, and I couldn't
baste for looking and wondering, and the
nuss she made her feet fly and kept a ask-
ing for more work, and I hurried and
drove, but I couldn't baste to keep up
with her, and at last I stopped, and says
I, ' There's one of them machines inside <V
my head, and another where my heart
oughter be,' says I, 'and I can't stand it
no longer. Do stop sewing, and take that
child out of them straps. It's against na-
ture for children to be so little trouble as
them are children are, and they ought to
be a playing out doors instead o' rocking
and jiggling up here in this hot room.'

' Guess you're getting nervous,' says the
nuss, 'and any how I've got to take 'em
out to walk if its only to let Mrs. Hender-
son see that our children's got as hand-
some clothes as her'n has, if we ain't just
been to Paris. Why these three children's
jist had sixty-three new frocks made, and
their Ma thinks that aint enough. Come
Matilda, I'll dress you first,' says she.

'I don't want to go to walk,' says Ma-
tilda.

' Don't want to go to walk ! Then how's
that Henderson girl a going to see your
new cloak and them furs o' your'n ? And
your'n cost more'n her'n, for your Ma give
twenty-eight dollars apiece for them muffs
o' your'n and your sister's, and what's the
use if you don't go down the Fifth Avenue
and show 'em ?'

I began to feel kind o'sick and faint,
and says I to myself ' if their Ma don't see
to her children I don't know as I oughter
expect the Lord to, but if he don't they'll
be ruined over and over again.'

' I'll go out and walk with you and the
children if you aint no objections nuss,'
says I.

'No,' says she, 'I ain't no objections if
you'll put on your best bonnet, and fix up
a little.'

So I dressed me, and I took the girls
and she took the baby, and we walked up
and down the Fifth Avenue, and I heerd
one nuss say to our'n :

' Is that your new nuss ?" says she.

'La! no, its our aunt,' says she, and
then they both burst out a laughing.

Well, it went on from day to day that
I hadn't any where else to stay, and so I
stayed with them children. And Fanny,
the oldest one, she got to loving me, and
nothing would do but she must sleep in my
bed, so I had her in my room and I washed
and dressed her, and I told her stories out
of the Bible and Pilgrims' Progress, and
taught her hymns, and then Matilda she
wanted to come, too, and they moved
her little bedstead in, and she slept there,
and so by degrees I got so that you
couldn't hardly tell me from the nuss.
And it was handy for her to have me stay
home every Sunday afternoon and see to
the children while she went to meetin' and
home to see her folks, and she said so,
and that she felt easy to leave 'em with
me because I'd know what to do if any
thing happened to 'em. And it got to be
handy for her to call me if the baby cried
more'n common in the night, or if he had
the croup. For Gustavus was a croupy
child, and every time his Ma had company
and would have him down stairs with his
apron took off' so as to show them white
arms and them round shoulders of his full
o' dimples, why he was sure to wake up a
coughing and scaring us out of our wits.
Well, I wasn't young and spry as I used
to be, and it's wearing to lose your sleep
o' nights, and then Fred's ways and Ma-
ria's ways made me kind o' distressed like,
and Sam Avery he kept writing and hector-
ing me and saying I ought to have the law
of Fred, and Satan he roared round some,
and all together one night after dinner,
just as we was a getting up from the ta-
ble, I was took with an awful pain in my
head, and down I went flat on to the floor.
Fred he got me up, and they sent for the
doctor, and the doctor he questioned this
one and he questioned that one, and he

1865.]

Fred, and Maria, and Me.

133

said misses' places wasn't places for old
ladies, and, then again, plenty of fresh air
was good for old ladies, and to have things
pleasant about 'cm, and to be took round
and diverted. So I was sick a good while,
and I expect I made a sight of trouble,
for one day they was all a sitting round in
my room and little Fanny she stood by the
side of the bed, and says she, • Aunt Avery
what is a Regular Nuisance ?'

1 1 don't know, ' says I, • I never saw
one. 'Taint one of the creeturs in Pil-
grim's Progress, is it ?' says I.

' For Ma says you are a Regular Nui-
sance,' says she.

' You naughty girl, how dare you tell
such stories ?' said her Ma, and she up and
boxed the little thing's ears till they was
red.

'It aint a story, and you did say so.
You told Mrs. Henderson — '

'Hold your tongue, you silly little
goose !' said Fred. ' Don't mind her, aunt
Avery, she's nothing but a child.'

' They do say children and fools speak
the truth,' says I, ' and maybe you think
I'm a fool ; and maybe I am. But I ain't
deaf nor blind, and I can't always be
dumb. And I wont deny it, Fred, I've
had hard thoughts towards you. Not
about the money ; I don't, care for money,
and never did. But it's so dreadful to
think of your saying you was poor when
you wasn't poor, and all those things
about your little children a going out to
work for their living.'

'Pshaw! that was a mere joke,' cried
Fred. ' You knew, as well as I did, that
they were only a parcel of babies.'

' Well, and there's another thing I want
to speak of. Did Sam Avery coax me to
come here because he thought it would
take a weight off your mind ; or because
he thought it would plague you and Maria
to have a plain old body like me round
the house V

'Sam Avery be hanged!' said Fred,
'The fact is, aunt Aveiy, I ain't worse
than other men. I was in love with Ma-
ria, and I was determined to have her.
And I wanted her to live with me pretty
much as she had been used to living. If
you think this is too fine a house for her
Vol. I.

to possess, why you'd better go and ex-
amine the one she was born and brought
up in. I economize all I can ; we don't
keep a carriage, and Maria has often to
ride in stages, and pass up her sixpence
like any old washerwoman. And I deny
myself about giving. I give nothing to
the poor, and subscribe to no charities,
except charity balls ; and Sam Avery, a
sanctimonious old sinner, has just give five
hundred to Foreign Missions. If it wasn't
for being twitted about the money I had
from you, I could hold up my head as high
as any man. But since you've been and
set all Goshen on to me, why my lifc is a
dog's life, and little more.'

It cut me to the heart to think I'd kept
him so short of money that he hadn't
nothing to give away.

'Well,' says I, * you'll soon have the
value of the old place, and be out of debt,
besides. For I'm going where I shall
want none of those things.'

Just then I looked up, and there was
Maria standing in front of Fred, her face
white and her lips trembling. She had
gone out with the child, and we hadn't
noticed she'd come back.

' Do you mean to say you've been bor-
rowing money of this old woman, and
have been deceiving me all along by pre-
tending she gave it to you ? Look me in
the face then, if you dare !'

' What a fuss about a few thousand dol-
lars!' returned he. 'Of course I expect
to repay her all she's let me have. And
you, Maria, are the last person to com-
plain. Was not this house your own
choice ? And how did you suppose a man
of my age could afford to buy it without
help V

Maria made no answer. It seemed as if
an* her love to him had turned into corn-
tempt.

I riz up in the bed, as weak as I was,
and says I, 'Fred Avery, come here to
me, and you, Maria, come here too, and
you two kiss each other and make up,
right away, or I shall die here in this
house, and can't have my own minister to
bury me, and shall have to put up with
your'n. Why, what's money when you
come to putting it along side of dwelling
9

134

Fred, and Maria, and Me.

[June,

together in unity? Quick, get a paper
and let me sign it ; and say in the paper
it was my free gift and I never lent none
of it ; and, oh hurry, Fred, for I feel so
faint and dizzy V

'I believe you've killed the poor old
soul !' said Maria, and she fanned me and
held salts to my nose, and tried to make
me lie down. But I wouldn't, and kept
making signs for the paper, for I thought
I was going to drop away in no time.

' Get the paper this instant, Fred,' said
Maria, pretty much as if he was one of the
children. So he went and got it and I
signed my name, and then I lay back on
the pillow, and I don't know what hap-
pened next, only I felt 'em fanning me,
and a pouring things down my throat ;
and one says, 'open the window!' and
another says, 'its no use!' and then I
heard a child's voice set up such a wail
that my old heart began to beat again, and
I opened my eyes and there was little
Fanny, and she crept up on to the bed,
and laid her soft face against mine, and
said, ' You wont go and die, aunt Avery,
and leave your poor little Fanny ?' and I
knew I mustn't go and leave that wail a
sounding in her Ma's ears. And when I
know I ought not to do a thing, I don't do
it. So that time I didn't die.

Well ! it's an easy thing to slip down
to the bottom of the hill, but it ain't half
so easy to get up again as it is to lay there
in a heap, a doing nothing. And it took
a sight of wine whey, and calve's feet jelly,
and ale and porter, and them intemperate
kind of things to drag me a little way at a
time back into the world again. I didn't
see much of Fred, but Maria used to come
up and sit in my room and work on a little
baby's blanket she was a covering with
leaves and flowers, and sometimes she'd
speak quite soft and gentle like, and coax
me to take my beef-tea, just as if she
wanted me to get well. She wasn't never
much of a talker, but we got used to each
other more'n I ever thought we should.
And one day — then ! I know it was silly,
but when she was giving me some thing,
I took hold of that pretty soft hand of hers
and kissed it. And the color came and
went in her face, and she burst out a cry-
ing, and says she :

' I shouldn't have cared so much, only
I wanted to love Fred!'

That was all she ever said to me about
him after I'd signed that paper, but when
folk's hearts are full they ain't apt to go to '
talking much, and I knew now that Ma-
ria had got a heart, and that it was full,
and more too.

At last I got strong enough to ride out,
and Maria went with me, and after awhile
she used to stop at Stewart's and such
places to do her shopping, and I would
stay in the carriage until she got through.
I wanted to see what sort of a place Stew-
art's was, for I heerd tell of it many a time,
but I thought Maria wouldn't want to have
me go in with her, and that maybe I could
go sometime by myself. I asked her what
they kept there and she said 'Oh every
thing,' and I'm sure the shop looked as big
as all out doors. She used to get into a
stage sometimes to go down town, and I
watched all she did in them stages so as to
know how to manage, and one day I slip-
ped out and got into the first one that came
along, for thinks I, why shouldn't I go to
Stewart's if I've a mind, all by myself?

It carried me up this street and across
that, and at last it stopped near a railroad
depot and all the passengers but me got
out. I waited a little while, and at last I
got up, and says I to the driver, 'Ain't
you a going no further ?'

'No, I ain't,' says he.

' But I want to go to Stewart's,' says I.

'I've no objections, ma'am,' says he, and
began to beat his arms about, and blow
his hands, as if he was froze. I didn't
know what to do, or where I was, but
pretty soon he turned his horses' heads
about, and began to go back the very way
we'd come. So I pulled the check, and
says I, ' I want to go to Stewart's.'

'Well d&i't you going?' says he, 'and
I don't know as there's any need to pull a
fellow's leg off!'

' I beg your pardon, I didn't mean to
hurt you,' says I, and with that I set down
and we rode and rode till we got into
Broadway, and then I began to watch all
the signs on the shops, so as to get out at
the right place. At last we got most
down to the ferries, so I asked a man that
had got in if we hadn't passed Stewart's/

1865.]

Fred, and Maria, and Me.

135

'Oh yes, long ago,' says he.

'Dear me, I must get, out, then,' says I.
'I told the driver I wanted to go there,
but I suppose he has a good deal on his
mind a picking his way along, and so for-
got it.' So I got out and began to walk
up the street, and I ran against eveiy
body and every body ran against me, and
I came near getting run over a dozen
times, and was so confused that I didn't
rightly know how far I'd walked, so I
stopped a girl, and says I, ' Oh do you
know where Stewart's is ?'

' La, it's three or four blocks down so,'
says she.

'I didn't see no sign up,' says I, ' and
so I passed it.'

' I guess you'll have to look till dark if
you're looking Xor signs,' says she, and
away she went. I was pretty well used
up, I was so tired, but I went back, and
this time I found it and went in. The
first thing I asked for was tape. ' "We
don't keep it,' says the clerk.

'Do you keep fans?' says I.

' No, fans are not in our line.'

1 Well, have you got any brown Wind-
sor soap ?'

No, they hadn't got any kind of soap.
There was some other little things I want-
ed, such as pins and needles and buttons,
but I didn't like to ask for 'em, for if they
didn't happen to have none of 'em it
might hurt their feelings to have people
know it. But there was one thing I
thought I'd venture to ask for, and that
was a velvet cloak. I'd heerd Maria say
a new kind of spring cloak was uncommon
handy, and I had twenty dollars in my
pocket a purpose to buy it with. For
I kind o' liked Maria, and I pitied her too,
for she and Fred didn't seem good friends,
and then I had made so much trouble
when I was sick.

The clerk said yes, they had some, but,
says he, 'They're very expensive,' and
never offered to show them to me. Well,
I ain't perfect, and I felt a little riled in
my feelings. And says I, as mild as I
could, 'I didn't say nothing about the
price. I asked you if you'd got any o'
them cloaks.' Upon that he took out one
or two, and I liked them pretty well,

though when I heerd the price I found
my twenty dollars warn't agoing to help
much ; but then I didn't care. ' I don't
want no such finery myself,' thinks I, but
Maria's young and she wants it, and she
and Fred feel pretty bad, and I don't
know as it's any of Sam Avery's business
how I spend my money. Folks down to
Goshen they might say aunt Avery she's
grown worldly and fond of the pomps and
vanities, but then 'taint true if they do say
it. 'Taint worldly to wear good clothes,
and 'taint pious to wear bad ones. The
Lord don't look on the outside, and I
have a feeling that its right for Maria to
have one o' them cloaks. So I says to the
man, ' Won't you be so good as to let me
carry home two o' them cloaks to show
Mrs. Avery, for I don't know which of 'em
she'd like best.' He stared at me half a
minute, and then says he, ' Are you her
seamstress ?'

'No, I ain't,' says I. 'I suppose you
think there ain't no ladies but what wears
silks and satins and laces and velvets. But
I'll tell you what, Abijah Pennell, when
you've lived in this world as long as I
have you wont judge folks jest by their
clothes.'

He colored up and looked at me pretty
sharp, and says he, 'Excuse me for not
recognizing you Miss Avery. Its so many
years since I left Goshen. I'll send the
cloaks for you with pleasure. Wont you
have one for yourself?'

'No, Abijah, no,' says I, 'them 'ere
cloaks ain't for old women like me.' So
I bid him good-bye and all the clerks good-
bye that stood round a laughing in their
sleeves, and I went out to look for a stage
and there was a nice policeman a standing
there, so I told him where I wanted to go,
for, thinks I, it makes a good deal of odds
which stage you get into, and he put me
in and I sat down by a man with a gold
ring on his finger and little short, black
curls round his forehead, and he was quite
sociable, and I told him where I'd been,
and how I hadn't bought nothing, and
then we talked about the weather, and at
last he got out. And just after that I put
my hand into my pocket to get at my
purse, and there wasn't no purse there.

136

Fred, and Maria, and Me.

[June,

'Goodness!' says I to all the folks in
the stage, ' my purse ain't in my pocket !'

' That man with the curly hair sat pretty
close to you,' says one of the passengers.
' But its no use trying to catch him now.'

' But I ain't got no money to pay my
fare,' says I, 'and I must get right out.'
So I made the driver stop, and says I
'I'm very sorry Mister, but my pocket's
been picked and I cant pay my fare.'

' You don't come that dodge over me
old woman,' says he. ' If you can't pay
your fare you'd better git out and walk.'
So I got out and walked till I was ready
to drop, but when I went in, there was
Maria admiring of them cloaks, and says
she:

'Aunt Avery somebody's sent me these
cloaks to choose which I'll have, and I'm
afraid it's Fred. And Fred's not going to
make up with me with cloaks, I can tell
him.'

'No, dear,' says I, 'it ain't Fred, it's
your old aunt that wants to see you pleased
and happy and that's went down to Stew-
art's and picked out them cloaks.'

' La ! I never!' says she, 'I thought
you had an idea that every body ought to
wear sackcloth and ashes.' But she did
seem sort of pleased and grateful, and
Fred did too, when he came home, and
he and Maria behaved quite decent to each
other, but I could see there was something
on their minds, and that they weren't
good friends by no means.

Little Fanny she and I kept together a
good deal, for she wasn't no care, and
Gustavus he got to be hanging around his
old aunt, and I taught him to come in every
night to say his prayers. That night he
was so good, and coaxed so prettily to
sleep with me, that I thought I wouldn't
care if the doctor did scold, the dear child
should have his way now and then. And
seeing the little creature a lying, there so in-
nocent and so handsome, and a looking jest
as Fred Used to look, I couldn't help pray-
ing more'n common for him, and says I to
myself, ' He wont have the croup to-night,
any how, with ms to cover him up and
keep him warm.' But about two o'cldck
I was woke out of a sound sleep with that
'ere Gough of his. It went through me

like a knife, and I got up and gave him
his drops right away, and put on more
coal and covered him up warmer, but he
didn't seem no better, so I had to go and
call Fred to go for the doctor.

Well ! well ! there's some has to toil
and fight and work their way up hill to-
wards the heavenly places, and there's
some that never know nothing about no
kind o' battling, and their little white feet
. never go long enough over the dusty road
to get soiled or tired. And when the day-
light came in at my windows that morn-
ing, Fred and Maria was good friends
again, and he had his arms around her
and she clung close to him, but little Gus-
tavus was gone. Gone where such dread-
ful words as money ain't never mentioned ;
gone straight up to the great white throne
without no fears and no misgivings ! Oh
Fred, you're a rich man now, for you've
got a child up in heaven.

That night Maria had the children kneel
down and say their prayers in her room,
but I never see her shed no tears, nor heard
her a grieving. She hid her poor broken
heart away in her bosom, and there wan't
no getting at it to comfort it. I couldn't
but lay awake nights a hearing of her a
walking up and down in her room, and a
chafing and a wearing all to herself, and
them tears she couldn't shed was a wetting
my pillow and fairly a bathing my poor
prayers for her.

We had an early spring this year, and
Fred said the doctor told him I'd better
not stay in New York till warm weather
came. So I wrote to Sam Avery and told
him I was a coming home in May, and I
thought I ought to tell him how I'd gone
contrary to his advice and signed away all
I'd ever lent Fred, and made him a life
member of the Bible Society and them.
And I asked him not to feel hard to me
and to see that the widow Dean had my
room ready against I got back. Maria wa3
stiller than ever, and hardly ever talked
at all, and Fred looked full of care and
yet more as he used to when he was a boy.
And we parted kindly, and Maria as good
as said she was sorry to have me go, only
it was time to take the children out of
town. Fanny, she said she was a goiDg

1865.]

Fred, and Maria, and Me.

137

With me, and she got a little trunk and nut
her things in it, and was as busy as a bee
folding and packing, And when I saw
her heart so set upon it, I felt a pang such
as I never felt before, to think I hadn't
got no home to take her to, and how it
wouldn't do to venture her on the widow
Dean who couldn't abide children. Well !
her Pa had to carry her off by main force
when the carriage came, and I had a dull
journey home, for I didn't seem to have
no home, only the name of one. For I
never took to boardin'.

It was past five o'clock when I got to
Goshen post-office, and thinks I Sam
Avery wont be upbraiding of me to-night
for its quite -a piece from his house over to
the Widow's. But who should I see a
waiting there at the depot but Sam and
his shay.

'How dy'e do? aunt Avery, glad to
see you home again,' says he, 'jump right
iuto the shay and I'll get your trunk.
Amanda, she's waiting tea for you, and I
rather think you'll find it bilin' hot,' says
he.

'But I was a going to the widow
Dean's,' says I.

'Don't talk no widow Dean's to me,'
says Sam, 'but you jest get into that shay
o' mine and go where you're took to aunt
Avery.'

And how nice and clean and shiny
Amanda's house did look, to be sure ! And
how she kissed me and said over and over
'twas good to get me home again. And
how that tea did build me up, and make
me feel young and spry as I used to feel
in old times.

Well, after tea I put on an apron she
lent me, and she" and me we washed up
and cleared away, and Sam, he read a
chapter and we had prayers, and I went
to bed, and I never knew nothing after I
laid my head on the pillow, but slept all
night like a little baby.

At breakfast I expected Sam would
begin about Fred, but he didn't, andAman-
da she didn't, and we two we washed
up the dishes and swept the floors and
made the beds, and Amanda she let me
do jest as I was a mind to, and it didn't
seem like boardin' at all. And after a

while I left off expecting Sam to hector
me about Fred, and got to feeling easy in
my mind. And we had the minister to
tea, and his wife and children, and you
never saw nobody so pleased as they was
at their things. For of course I wasn't
going to New York without getting a black
silk gown for my minister's wife, and a
doll for little Rebecca, and wooden cats
and dogs for the rest of 'em. Sam Avery
he was a going and a coming more'n com-
mon this spring, and he says to me one
day, 'Aunt Avery don't you go to looking
at the old place when you're wandering
out. You see Squire Jackson's been, a
cutting and a hacking, and there's a good
deal going on there, and it might rile your
feelings to see the muss,' says he.

So I didn't go near the old place, and I
didn't want to, and the time it slipped by
and I got to feeling that nothing aggrava-
ting hadn't never happened to me. Folks
come for aunt Avery when they was sick
jest as they used to, and the minister ha
dropped in every now and then, and Dea-
con Morse he had over plenty of them
rough sayings of his that didn't mean
nothing but good-will, and so I felt quite
to home. There wasn't but one thing a
stinging of me, and that was Fred and his
ways, and Maria and her ways. And I
kind o' yearned after them children, and
couldn't help a thinking if I hadn't been
and sold the old place, ther'd always been
a home for them in the summer time, and
a plenty of new milk and fresh eggs.

Well! it got to be well on into July,
and one afternoon, Sam Avery he come in
and says h<3 'Aunt Avery you put on your
bonnet and get into the shay and go right
down to the old place. There's somebody
down there wanfcs looking after,' says he.

'Dear me, is any of 'em sick?' say* I.
And I put on my things, and Sam whipped
up the old horse, and next news, we was
driving up to the house. Things didn't
look so changed after all. Them trees
• was gone, there's no denying of it, but
there wasn't nothing else gone, and when
I went in there wasn't none o' Squire
Jackson's red and yaller carpets on the
floors nor none o' his things a laying about.
But there was my little light-stand a set-

138

Fred, and Maria, and Me.

[June*

ting in the corner, and my old Bible on it
with the spectacles handy by jest as they
used to be, and our cat she come a rubbing
of herself against me, as much as to say,
'Glad to see you back aunt Avery,' and
them two little children, they come run-
ning up, and one kissed me and the other
hugged me, and 'twas Fanny and Matildy,
and then Fred Avery he walks up, and
says he, 'Welcome home aunt Avery!'
and Maria she takes both o' my old hands
and a squeezes of 'em up to her heart, and
then says she, ' Here's our new baby come
to see you, and her name's Aunt Avery,'
says she, and she put it into my arms and
'twasn't bigger than a kitten, but it had a
little mite of a smile a shining on its face
all ready a waiting for me. By this time
I was a'most beat out, but they set me
down in my old chair, and them children
they was round me, and Fred a smiling,
and Maria a smiling, and Sam Avery a
shaking hands with every body, and I
didn't pretend to make nothing out o' no-
body, for I knew 'twasn't nothing real,
only something I was reading out of a
book. Only that 'ere little baby that was
named aunt Avery, it held tight hold o'
one o' my fingers with its tiny little pink
hand, and that wasn't nothing you could
read out of a book no how. And then
Amanda she opened the door into the big
kitchen and there was a great long table
set out with my best china and things, and
our minister and his wife and all them
children, and Deacon Morse and the
Widow Dean, they'd come to tea. And
the minister he stood up, and says he,
'Let us pray.' And in his prayer he told
the Lord all about it, though I guess the
Lord knew before, how Maria had made
Fred sell that big house of his, and how
he'd bought me back the old place, and"
how we was all come to tea, and a good
many other things I couldn't rightly hear
for the crying and the sobbing that was a
going on all round. And then we had
tea, and I never thought when Amanda

made me fry all them dough-nuts and stir
up such a sight o' cake what 'twas all a
coming to, for its my opinion that nobody
knows when they does a thing, what's a
going to come next, though the Lord he
knows all along.

Well, it begun to grow dark, and one
after another they all come and bid me
good-night, till at last everybody was gone
but me and Maria and them children of
hers. And Maria came up to me, and says
she, 'Does the old place look pleasant,
aunt Avery?' but I couldn't answer her
for them tears that kept a choking me.
And so she said if I didn't mind, and it
wouldn't be too much trouble, she wanted
to stay with me the rest of the summer,
till Fred could get a new, honest home for
her somewhere else. Wasn't that just
like an angel now, after all the trouble I'd
been and made for her, a setting of her
against her husband, and a turning of her
out of her beautiful house and home, and a
making her buy back for me my old place ?
So she and me we undressed them child-
ren, and made them kneel clown and say
their prayers, and we put them to bed up
stairs, and I began to feel to home.

And Maria she staid till cold weather
came, and she sat and read my old Bible,
and talked to them children about the
place Gustavus had traveled to, and she
paid respect to our minister, and wiped
up the china when I washed it, and fitted
her ways to my ways quite meek and
quiet-like.

And Fred paid back every cent he'd
borrowed, for he'd kept account, and
knew all about it, and he started fair and
square in the world again, owing no-
thing to nobody. So now I've a home
for him and Maria and the children , and
the old house is full of Avery s once more,
and so is the old pew, and all the taxes
paid up regular.

So you are a rich man now, Fred, and
you're a rich woman, Maria, for you've
got a child up in heaven !

-♦»■«

1865.]

Touched with the Feeling of our Infirmities.

139

TOUCHED WITH THE FEELING OF OUR INFIRMITIES.'

It were possible to conceive of our Re-
demption as a governmental measure only,
gracious in design, and full of wisdom and
power in execution, yet evincing no fath-
erly feeling, no pity or sympathy for man
as a creature of weakness and sorrow. It
were also possible to conceive of our De-
liverer as wanting in the elements of per-
sonal attraction, dying for man as a duty
or in obedience to some behest of neces-
sity, and not from the constraining power
of love. But in the gospel God puts on
the character of the Father, speaks words
of endearment, and exhibits the yearnings
of infinite tenderness, in order to win back
his prodigal children. The gospel is not
so much the power of intellectual and vis-
ible demonstrations, to awe the mind and
compel conviction, as of a grand attrac-
tion, having its seat in the deepest heart
of the Godhead, and shining brighter and
brighter along the ages, till it culminates
on Calvary in the person of the dying Son
of Mary. Jesus has come down into our
very nature, become our Brother in form
and in fact, in condition and experience,
that he might minister to us and assure us
of Heaven's infinite pity for us and desire
for our salvation.

The Sympathy of Christ is one of the
great attractions of his character, and one
of the chief elements of his power. It is
a topic of delightful interest to us.

Sympathy is one of the latent forces of
spiritual being. We can not philosophize
upon it. Like the gentle breeze which
fans us, we are conscious of its pres-
ence, but we cannot tell whence it com-
eth or whither it goeth. It is a pro-
found mystery. But we all confess its
power. It has flashed along every line of
the soul. The electric wires ramify our
whole nature, and at the touch of the fin-
ger of God, the life current passes over
them all. There is not an isolated being
in the universe. These hidden wires con-
nect us all together and join us all to that
unseen Hand away in the depths of etern-
ity which controls the whole system of
being.

Human sympathy demands, both of the
preacher and the political economist, a
closer study than it has yet received.
There is a power in it, both for evil and
for good, which is but imperfectly under-
stood. Man is a creature of sympathy.
Sympathy is the highest power of his be-
ing : it will conquer him when every thing
else has failed. The life around us is full
of illustrations of this. We look at social
changes and conditions, and can not ex-
plain them. We see one mind swaying
other minds, and we can not account for
the fact. Sympathy is at work with its
subtle forces and through a thousand
channels which the eye can not detect,
and which our philosophy can not dis-
cover. In certain conditions of individual
and social being, the law of sympathy is
absolute. It stirs to the deepest fountain.
It binds hearts indissolubly. It assimilates
natures and conditions very unlike. It
breathes life or death over a whole com-
munity.

Now the mission and work of Christ
are adapted to give the greatest effect to
this element of our being; they bring
down into Humanity the sympathies of the
Godhead, and make them a living power
for its restoration. The sympathy of God
and the sympathy of man meet and blend
in the person of Christ. He has come
down — all the way down from supreme
Divinity into our fallen nature and fallen
world, and put his heart in close contact
with our heart, and spoken to us as a
Friend and Brother, and taken upon him-
self our griefs and infirmities. Jesus
Christ thus comes to us in the only way
that can make him available and welcome
to us — down the dark pathway of suffer-
ing and sorrow, and, flashing in the soul's
lowest dungeon the light of a Brother's
love, and ringing out the words of a di-
vine sympathy, he extends a helping hand.
His feeling is more than that of pity and
compassion — it is that of an all-penetra-
ting sympathy, springing from a perfect
knowledge and appreciation of the condi-
tions and demands of our nature.

140

Touched with the Feeling of our Infirmities.

[June,

1. The sympathy of Christ for his peo-
ple is the sympathy of a common Nature.
As God, he could not enter into all our
feelings. Between our sinful and fallen
nature and the pure and exalted nature of
Deity there could be no fellow-feeling, no
affinity ; there is no basis for it except in
the person of the Mediator. For sin has
alienated the creature from the Creator,
and destroyed the very foundations of
friendliness. But Christ met the other-
wise insuperable difficulty by bringing the
two natures together in one person. He
came down into fallen Humanity and in
the very nature which sin had defiled and
cursed, struck the roots of the Divine na-
ture. By one amazing act of condescension
he bridged the great gulf which cut us off
from God and opened upon our desolate
world the sealed fountains of Heaven.
" He took not on him the nature of angels,"
for the reason that only in the nature
which sin had debased and oppressed with
sin and woe, could he stay the tide of
ruin and begin the work of salvation. He
took on him " the seed of Abraham " —
our flesh and manhood, a human body and
a human soul — and thus he forever iden-
tified himself with Humanity, and abso-
lutely linked his being and destiny with
it. By this act he became our Brother,
a man like one of us, our infirmities even
not excepted.

Christ is not more Divine than Human.
I love to think of him as God, radiant
with his eternal glory, and wielding the
scepter of universal sovereignty. Human
nature demands a Divine Saviour, and can
rest securely in no other. His divinity is
the sheet-anchor of hope.

But I love equally to think of Christ as
a Man, living in a state of probation, and
under the curse of sin, and passing
through all the conditions and experiences
of a common nature. I love to study him
in his earthly history, from the time he
lay a helpless infant in Mary's arms, till
he bowed his head on Calvary. T love to
dwell on the relations he filled in his hu-
man nature — his friendships, his personal
wants and trials and joys — and to journey
with him on foot along the Valleys, and
over the hills of "Judea, Samaria and

Galilee," and witness his daily life, and
see how his heart ever went out in love
and compassion towards the erring and the
suffering — the eye that will one day flash
wrath on his enemies, admiring the deli-
cate beauty of the lily, and the sweetness
of infancy, and weeping over Jerusalem
and at the grave of friendship — the hand
that will strike through kings in the day
of his power, stretched out to bless little
children, to heal the sick, or to perform
the gentle ministries of earthly affection —
the lips on whose awful utterances worlds
will wait, conversing familiarly with his
disciples on matters relating to their hum-
ble life, or their religious faith, or discours-
ing to the multitude such words of tender
and persuasive love as no man beside him
ever spoke — " the common people hearing
him gladly " — the meek and the lowly, the
heavy laden and the sorrowing, the peni-
tent and the inquiring, pressing to his
ministry ; weary, yet ever at work — filled
with all the fulness of the Godhead, yet-
dependent and " not where to lay his
head " — his mind occupied with the
greatest and grandest of all God's works,
and yet attentive to the humblest call of
duty, talking at length with the woman of
Samaria at Jacob's Well, or sitting down
with the little family of Bethany, and, while
enjoying its hospitality, contriving to ad-
minister a gentle rebuke to the over-
anxious Martha, while he puts the cup of
life to the thirsty lips of the waiting Mary.

Here, on this field, I seem to get very
nigh to Jesus, to be brought into actual
contact with him, to move in a sphere all
alive with divine sympathies and instinct
with the teaching and the example of a
perfect manhood. I seem to hear a
brother's voice speaking to me in familiar
tones and saying, " Follow me." I seem
to feel a brother's hand laid upon me,
giving me strength and assurance to go
forward in life's duties. The Christian
life is made tangible and real to me,
when I take this view of the Divine Man.

Oh, no ! It is not the sympathy of a
stranger or of some far-off being, which
I feel kindling upon me, coming to my
soul in the visions of the night and in the
conflicts of the day, to cheer and sustain

1805.]

Touched with the Feeling of our Infirmities.

in

my oft-fainting spirit. But it is the sym-
pathy of one always l>y my side in all
life's cares and trials and duties, and
between whom and me there exist the
real ties and feelings of a common nature ;
the sympathy of one who can enter into
my inmost being, and who knows and
appreciates everything which concerns
me ; not the sympathy which pity awak-
ens, but the sympathy which arises from an
actual community of interests and experi-
ences, deep, absorbing and assimilating.

2. The sympathy of Christ is the sympa-
thy of a common Condition. Equality
of condition, as well as equality of nature,
is essential to a perfect or even to a high
degree of sympathy. The king and the
subject, the rich and the poor, the learned
and the illiterate, the always healthy and
the sickly, the bold and the timid, the
man of iron nerves and the man of acute
sensibilities, can not sympathize to any
considerable extent one with the other.
The one class can not appreciate or even
understand the feelings of the other.
There is so great a dissimilarity in their
outward lot and circumstances that it is
impossible for them really to enter into
each other's feelings. Take a man who
was born and bred in affluence, whose
every want has been met, and whose
life has known no toil and but little care
or anxiety, and what does he really know
of the burdens which the poor man has
to carry, the temptations which daily
knock at the door of his heart, the anxie-
ties which corrode his peace, and the evil
and bitterness of his lot ? Such is the
difference in all the externals of their
life and being, that there is, there can be,
no soul-union or sympathy. You must
equalize their outward condition before
you can establish between them the law
of sympathy. This inequality of condi-
tion is a bar to social sympathy and union
among the several classes which compose
society, and a bar so real and formidable
that no political economy has yet been
able to remove it.

Now, the Son of God, in order to make
a broad and open channel for the flow of
sympathy, has come down to our actual
condition. Although equal with the

Father, he took on him "the seed of the
woman." Although Lord of all, he became
a subject. Rich, he stooped to the lowest
poverty. The Glory of heaven, he wras
born in a manger, of humble parentage,
and ate his bread in the sweat of his
brow, and subjected himself to all the
essential conditions of our fallen and
suffering humanity. Not in regal state or
splendor did he come down to earth, but
as one of a fallen race. Had he come
otherwise than he did, the equality of our
condition had not been perfect. In his
humanity he belonged to no privileged
class, but to universal man. His birth,
and social lot and life of labor, identified
him with the common people, and "the
common people," we read, "heard him
gladly;" because he was one of them;
he apprehended their wants and trials
and straits as no other teacher had ever
done. He brought himself down to the
level of their capacity, and social life,
and religious wrants, and taught them that
the true dignity and worth of man is
spiritual, not outward — that God is no
respecter of persons but accepts every one
who is of a lowly mind, and pure in
heart. The common people form the
great mass of mankind in every age of the
world, and hence Christ sprung from
them and identified his life and ministry
with them ; because he thus reached the
very center of humanity ; and also, that
he might demonstrate the important truth,
that the interest he felt in man was not
the interest which wealth, or station, or
rank, or social position is apt to create ;
but the interest which springs from an
appreciation of the dignity and worth of
the human soul, as made in the image of
God, and made for immortality !

3. The Sympathy of Christ is likewise
the sympathy of a common Experience.
He has passed through all the conditions
and taken upon himself all the infirmities
of our lapsed nature. He has felt in his
own person both the joys and the woes
of humanity. He has walked the varied
rounds of man's earthly experience.
There is not a burden laid upon us that
he has not borne. There is not a path
we tread that he has not trodden. Every

142

Touched with the Feeling of our Infirmities.

[June,

step we take in our weary pilgrimage his
blessed feet have measured off. Not a
cup is put to our lips that he has not
drained. Not an enemy assails us that
he has not encountered. He is familiar
with all the ills and conflicts of the flesh,
having endured them all. He is " touched
with the feeling of our infirmities,"
because he has known them all and felt
them all. He was " made perfect through
sufferings." He has "borne our griefs
and carried our sorrows." He was
" tempted in all points like as we are."
He has endured in his own human nature
and experience the actual evils from
which he came to deliver his people. All
that we have felt of the evil of sin, of the
misery of our fallen state, of the dreadful
nature of God's wrath, of the malice of the
devil, and of human want and weakness
— Christ has experienced. He emptied
himself of the fulness of the Godhead
that he might know the feeling of depend-
ence and want. He put himself into all
the conditions of our sad experience that
he might learn the kind and measure of
our sufferings, and thus be qualified to
meet every demand which could be made
upon him.

Nay, his experience was one of pecu-
liar and extreme suffering. He was in
very deed "a man of sorrows and ac-
quainted with grief." His was a state of
absolute solitariness; for who could
know his heart, or impart sympathy and
solace to him ? With a keenly sensitive
nature, what pangs pierced through and
through his human soul, while he " en-
dured the contradiction of sinners ! " Alive
to the evil of sin and of God's wrath as
no other human heart ever was, what bur-
dens of grief and anxiety continually op-
pressed his spirits ! Feeling an infinite
compassion for man in his guilt and ruin,
how he travailed in prayer day and night
for his salvation !

What a record have we of his experi-
ence ! "He was smitten of God and
afflicted" — " despised and rejected of
men." " He came unto his own and his
own received him not." "The foxes
have holes, and the birds of the air have
nests, but the Son of Man hath not where

to lay his head." He was known only as
" the carpenter's son," and stigmatized as
a " Nazarenc." His disciples were mostly
poor and illiterate. His neighbors sought
to slay him. His nation disowned and
scornfully entreated him. The Jewish
priesthood pursued him with relentless
hatred. The wise, the rich and the noble
spurned him. Friends forsook and be-
trayed him. And he was finally put to
death as a malefactor.

No man has endured and suffered as
did the innocent One. And it was all
for our sakes — the just for the unjust —
that he might know how to feel for his
people in all their trials and distresses and
be prepared to impart a ready and a full
measure of sympathy and support to them.

The Sympathy of Christ for his people
is, therefore, the sympathy of a common
Nature, the sympathy of a common Con-
dition, and the sympathy of a common
Experience. Hence it is a sympathy
broad as human experience, deep as the
human heart, radical as the evil it is
meant to counteract, warm and cordial as
a brother's and true and full and lasting
as the nature of God.

There is Power in this sympathy as an
element of good. We need it as a solace
to the heart, a spur to effort, a ground of
encouragement.

There are longings of the heart which
earthly loves and sympathies do not sat-
isfy ; which nothing, indeed, short of a
Divine friendship can meet. What child
of sorrow has not gone the round of earth-
ly friends, seeking solace and support
against some great trouble or desponden-
cy, and been taught by experience the
utter insufficiency of such a dependence?
Our friends do not exactly comprehend
our case, or they are not in a sympathetic
mood, or their own troubles exhaust or
absorb their energies. But in the Divine
Man we have a friend whose heart is
turned towards us always, and is full of
tenderness always ; and, fleeing to his
sympathy for refuge, we shall find it a
tower of strength in the day of evil, and a
place of repose amidst the cares and sor-
rows of life.

The adaptation of this sympathy is

1865.]

Touched with the Feeling of our Infirmities.

143

wonderful. Sympathy is effective only as
it meets the case in hand. Every man's
experience is, in some of its features, pe-
culiar to himself. In all the world there
is not a man just like yourself, one whose
constitution and experience qualify him
to extend sympathy to you at all points.
Our hest friends really sympathize with
us in only a few items ; there is much in
us which they blame or only tolerate.
We have thoughts, moods, feelings, joys,
sorrows, which we can not impart to any
human friend. But Christ's sympathy
readily adapts itself to every want and
condition of human nature. His eye reads
the secret feeling of the heart. His feet
explore every intricate chamber of the
soul. He marks every item of our expe-
rience. He has a divine perception of
all the elements of our being, character
and history. He comes down to us in
the solitariness of the heart, where no
friendly footfall was ever heard, and
breathes life and sweetness there. He
applies the balm with infinite skill.
His ministry is not that of a stranger,
feeling his way in the dark, and at times
irritating and wounding through igno-
rance ; but it is the ministry of a Divine
wisdom made perfect for this office by a
mission of personal suffering.

The fullness of this sympathy is infinite.
Human sympathy at best is limited. It
disappoints us. Where we want much
we get but little. All earthly fountains
are shallow ; we exhaust them and are
not satisfied. The heart is desolate ; the
soul is made to bear some great sorrow,
and all the kindness and attention of
friends fails to solace us. But there is a
fountain which never runs dry. There is
a heart which feels for every human pang.
There is a friend who will cheer under
any and every despondency, walk with us
over every rough spot in life, share every
burden, and comfort under every sorrow.

While the sympathy of Christ is the
sympathy of a Man, it is also the sympa-
thy of a God. The divine nature, which
is so mysteriously united to the human,
imparts its own fullness to it. So that his
sympathy is as exhaustless as the God-
head. It is ever full as the fountains of

Heaven, and as sweet and life-imparting
to the soul.

And was there ever so patient a sympa-
thy ? Our earthly friends soon weary of
us ; the frequent repetition of our griefs
and bodily ills will at length only excite
their impatience or disgust. Many a suf-
fering one has learned to conceal even
from his friends many a pain and ill and
sorrow, because he fears to tax farther
their patience and sympathy. But Jesug
is never weary of the cry of want or grief.
We may go to Him with all our cares and
trials, and doubts, and burdens, and go
seven times a day, and spread out our
case before him, and dwell upon every
item, and repeat the story, and press our
suit — we shall not offend or weary him.

"Many sensitive and fastidious natures
are worn out by the constant- friction of
what are called little troubles. Without
any great affliction they feel that all the
sweetness of their life is faded ; their eye
grows dim, their cheek careworn, and
their spirit loses hope and elasticity and
becomes bowed with premature age, and
in the midst of tangible and physical com-
fort they are restless and unhappy. The
constant undercurrent of little cares and
vexations which is slowly wearing on the
finer springs of life> is seen by no one —
scarce do they ever speak of these things
to their nearest friends. Yet were there
a friend of a spirit so discerning as to feel
and sympathize in all these things, how
much of this repressed electric restlessness
would pass off through such a sympathiz-
ing mind."*

Such a friend is the Son of Man. His
sympathy is as available to us in the little
troubles and vexations of every-day life
as under the greatest trials and the sorest
griefs. It is not so much hard work which,
wears out so many fine natures as it is in-
cessant worrying. It is not so much the
weight of the burden which makes the
soul cry out as it is the chafing which it
causes. But if the soul, ever conscious
of its own weakness and dependence, will
but confide in the All Sympathizing One,
he will give it patience day by day. He

* Mrs. Harriet Beecher Stowe.

144

Touched with the Feeling of our Infirmities.

[June,

will adjust every burden so as to avoid all
chafing. He will impart such cheerful-
ness to the spirits as will dissipate the
clouds and damps which chill and obscure
the inner life, and give a heavenly serenity
and sweetness to the temper.

What an unspeakable comfort to know
that in all our afflictions he is afflicted ;
that he shares in all our griefs ; and is no
stranger to our trials. Had he not his
conflicts with temptation and evil in every
form while in the world ? Had he not his
hours of weakness and fear ? Hear that
cry of soul-agony which breaks on the
midnight air in the garden, " O, my Fa-
ther ! if it be possible, let this cup pass
from me." Listen to that wail of suffering
humanity which goes up from the cross,
" My God ! my God ! why hast thou for-
saken me ?" Such hours of mental con-
flict and suffering we never experienced.
Then felt Jesus the weakness of the fallen
nature which he had taken to himself.
The burden of human guilt seemed then
too heavy to be borne even by the Son of
God!

And yet the very weakness of Jesus is
our strength. We gather courage from
those terrible baptisms of darkness which
came upon him. The trial and suffering
which made his " soul exceeding sorrow-
ful, even unto death," bring him nearer
to his people. He knows the full power
of human infirmity and weakness, and the
horrors of spiritual desertion, by a memo-
rable experience.

" Go to dark Gethsemane,

Ye who feel the tempter's power;
Your Redeemer's conflict see ;

Watch with him one bitter hour :
Turn not from his griefs away,
Learn of Jesus Christ to pray. "

Tempted in all points like as we
are: The Bible had not been complete
without that record. Had the Divine
Man never known temptation and conflict
and suffering by a broad and memorable
personal experience, he had failed to in-
spire his people with full confidence in
him as their Deliverer ; and his promises
had lacked that point and fullness which
now give them such sweetness and power.

Many a redeemed one is all his life in

bondage to the fear of death. Death fills
him with dismay. The grave is a living
terror to him. But it need not be so. Had
not our Redeemer himself been under the
power of death and laid in the grave,
we might well fear them. But our Elder
Brother has been before us even here.
Dying, he has vanquished death. He has
explored the invisible realm which lies
between us and the spirit-world, and flung
light down into the tomb ; and now he
says to his own, " Come on and fear not."
His voice rings out as they enter the Val-
ley of the Shadow of Death, and its tones
fill them with assurance and peace. His
rod and his staff have piloted many a pil-
grim safely and even joyfully through
these silent and gloomy regions, and mil-
lions of times have they echoed the tri-
umphant shout, " O death, where is thy
sting? O grave, where is thy victory?
The sting of death is sin ; and the strength
of sin is the law. But thanks be to God,
which giveth us the victory through our
Lord Jesus Christ."

Hours At Hoke.

Like the great rock's grateful shade,
In a strange and weary land —

Like the desert's cooling spring,
To a faint and drooping band —

So, to all will memories come,

Of the peaceful "Hours at Home!**

To the sailor on the sea

As the midnight watch he keeps
Some sweet thought of home will be

With him if he wakes or sleeps.
Memories of mother-love
Follow where his footsteps rove !

On the bloody field of death

Where brave hearts beat faint and low,
Heroes with their parting breath,

Say some word before they go
That a comrade sad and lone
Will bear back to those at home !

" Hours at Home ! " can we forget
Aught that makes their mem'ry dear?

Youth and childhood linger yet
With their skies so brightly clear,

And we bless, where'er we roam,

All that speaks of "Hours at Home!"

1865.]

A Visit to Goethe in Weimar.

145

A VISIT TO GOETHE IN WEIMAR.

In the summer of 1824, I was in Bonn,
busied, with my friend Karl Hermann, in
painting in fresco the halls of the Uni-
versity, after the cartoons of Cornelius.
It was at the time of the demagogue
phrcnsy, which crowded the Prussian pris-
ons. So it happened that one fine morn-
ing I was summoned by the police from my
painter's scaffolding, and placed behind
bars and bolts, because I, to my no small
astonishment, was a member of a secret
treasonable league. One of the prisoners
in Kopenik, it was said, had denounced
me. Happily I could at once prove my
entire innocence of the alleged crime to
the authorities of the University, so that,
the celebrated Niebuhr, in connexion with
the curator of the University privy-coun-
cillor, Rehfues, effected my release before
the royal council.

My imprisonment, thus rendered very
short, was otherwise of service to me.
As I sat the next morning before my wet
frescoes, I received numerous visits from
friends and strangers, among the rest
from Professor d'Alton, the gifted histo-
rian qf art. To him I was indebted,
when I left Bonn in the autumn of 1825,
in order to follow Cornelius to Munich,
and choose my course in Weimar, for
what was to me invaluable, a letter of
introduction to Goethe. The feeling
which once drew me to Switzerland and
the Tyrolese Alps beat strong in my heart,
as I held in my hand the paper which
opened my way to the highest intellectu-
al court of my nation and times. For I
confess, that in my eyes, the man who
worked with such transcendent power
upon all spheres of life, and all the most
important movements of the times, was
invested with a mythical enchantment,
and seemed to me at an unapproachable
distance. Although I, according to my
custom, wandered to the mouth of the
Rhine, up through Hesse and Thuringia,
and slowly made my way back, I seemed
to myself to travel with winged feet.

On the fifth of November I came to
Weimar. Early the next day I introduced

myself to Goethe in writing, and by send-
ing Prof, d' Alton's letter of introduction;
and received an invitation to call upon
him at twelve o'clock. I took with me a
drawing after the fresco painting of "The-
ology" executed by myself and Hermann,
and another pupil of Cornelius, and pass-
ed over the sacred threshold.

With an inexpressible feeling of min-
gled joy and anxiety, only slightly les-
sened even by the "salve" of entrance,
I stepped into the large reception room.
Yet I knew that the noble poet of Faust
was also the cool critic of the Faust of
Cornelius, who placed it on the same
level with that of Retzsch, almost with
that of Delacroix, and who in the " Nibe-
lungen" of my great master, could praise
only the " antique, heroic sense and the
incredible technical skill." And still he
was the great prince of poets, praised by
ten thousand tongues, and the object of
my own deepest reverence.

I had expected to find him sitting like
a king upon a throne, and intended to
stand at a modest distance near the door.
What was my surprise and sudden relief
when he came toward me with open
arms, seized me with both hands and gave
me a most cordial welcome ! After in-
quiries about d' Alton's health, he went at
once to the artistic projects in Bonn, and
was delighted that I could accompany
my answers with my drawing.

It was one of Goethe's peculiar traits,
that the aristocratic reserve which he
maintained in society, and with stran-
gers of distinction, he entirely dropped
in the presence of young people, placing
himself, so to speak, on their level, and
even asking information from them.
His demeanor gave me the most agreea-
ble impression ; all constraint vanished,
my tongue was loosed.

I then explained to him the plan pro-
posed by Cornelius, and approved by the
Prussian government, that of adorning in
fresco the halls of the University in Bonn
with historical representations of the four
faculties — Theology, Philosophy, Juris-

146

A Visit to Goethe in Weimar.

[June,

prudence and Medicine ; informed him how
the beginning had been made with theol-
ogy, which Cornelius had deputed to the
painter Carl Hermann from Dresden,
with myself and another of his pupils as
assistants, so that in the execution of the
separate groups a certain independence
should be preserved. This Goethe heard
with a questioning " so ?" Then I gave,
interrupted^now and then by a "hem" or
"so so!" from Goethe, an explanation of
the drawing ; that the allegorical figure
upon the pedestal in the middle repre-
sented Theology, with the geniuses of
Investigation and Faith, that next them
stood the Evangelists like pillars, attend-
ed by the Fathers of the church seated in
tw© rows, whom, with all the persons rep-
resented, I designated by name. Then I
pointed out the most prominent repre-
sentatives of ancient church history, the
founders of sects and orders ; the repre-
sentatives of the hierarchy, (Gregory VII
and Innocent III,) the scholastic theolo-
gians, and the godly Thomas a Kempis ;
then, on the other hand, the propagators
of Christianity, down to the representa-
tives of reform, from Peter Waldo, Huss
and Wickliffe, to Luther and his cotem-
poraries and co-workers, and the theolo-
gians of the seventeenth century. Final-
ly I pointed out the two groups in the
foreground, expressing the tendency of
the present age to a reconciliation between
Catholic faith and Protestant inquiry, to
which the old master listened with a most
friendly, but also most incredulous air.

" A praiseworthy undertaking," said
Goethe, " and conceived with enthusiasm
and earnest study. One must interest
himself in church history in order to un-
derstand it. But I have other doubts,"
and he turned and walked up and down
the room as he spoke. " Allegory is not
to be dispensed with in painting, any more
than in poetry. But the question is,
whether it is here produced in the right
place, or at least in the right form. Is it
colored, that is, represented with the ap-
pearance of actual life?" When I an-
swered in the affirmative, he proceeded,
" That would disturb me. A marble
group on this spot would express the idea,

without coming into disharmony with the
actual persons who surround it. I have
also just now another scruple. What is still
in progress can not be fairly seen ; we can
have a clear view only of what is com-
pleted. That group of the reconciled con-
fessions seems more like a pious wish
than an accomplished fact."

More than an hour passed in examining
and conversation, when he was summoned
to his midday meal, and my visit came to
an end. He gave me his hand cordially,
and said, " To-morrow I celebrate the
half-century of my public life. I do not
know what my friends are going to do,
and I await it in all modesty. I shall be
glad to see you among them."

How I reached the hotel I know not.
I went at once to my room, and repeated
to myself all that had passed from mo-
ment to moment, to assure myself that it
was not a dream. To have seen Goethe,
to have talked with him, to have been in-
vited to come again ! My room was too
small for my happiness. I rushed out into
the Park, perhaps the happiest man that
day in Weimar.

I would gladly have shared my joy
with some one, had I known whom. Then
it occurred to me that I might put it in a
form in which it could be presented at the
jubilee. In August of that year, we, a
merry company of friends in Bonn, had
celebrated Goethe's birth-day on the
Drachenfels, and thereupon I made father
Rhine tell the story to the old master, and
took the poem with me, when, on the
morning of the seventh of November, I
went to the house where the jubilee was
to be celebrated.

Here I found a select company, women
and maidens of Weimar in festive attire,
distinguished men of Weimar and Jena,
and, at the end of the room, a table with
costly gifts, especially of woman's handi-
work. Here, too, I saw Bckermann again,
who had visited me in the summer in
Bonn, and who now, with great friendli-
ness, proffered his kind offices in Weimar.
When Goethe entered, attended, if I recol-
lect rightly, by hie son, his daughter-in-
law, and his two grand-sons, he was greet-
ed by an appropriate festive song by four

1865.]

A Visit to Goethe in Weimar.

147

voices, of which Madame Eberwein was
the leader. After that he shook hands
With each one of ns, and looked with child-
like joy at the presents.

Where was now the great and unap-
proachable man, as, according to so many
reports, I had imagined him ? Even the
trait of divine irony in Ranch's bust, I
sought for in vain in the living original.
If it is delightful and refreshing to see our
superiors in birth and station, descend
to our level in the expression of their
thoughts and feelings, their inclinations
and habits, our admiration reaches almost
to reverence when a man, who by his
services and his personal worth has be-
come a prince in the realm of intellect, to
whom all men pay homage, demeans him-
self like one of the poorest, unconscious
of his riches as of his superiority. Such
was Goethe on this festal morning, so full
of lovely humanities that one remembered
neither the minister nor the renowned
poet.

•The banquet in the town-house, at
which I was placed between Madame von
Ahlefeldt and Eckermann, and where
there was no lack of poems and toasts,
was followed by a representation of Iphi-
genia at the theatre, such as I had never
seen even in Berlin, as perfect in the truth
and reality of its expression, as in the cor-
rectness of its poetical rendering, — the no-
blest festal offering to a poet.

Eckermann kept his word, and made
me acquainted with most of the men and
women artists of Weimar, and took me at
last to the grand duke's collection of art.
But I was to see all that was brilliant in
WTeimar. D' Alton had given me a letter
of introduction to the grand duke Charles
Augustus, upon the sending of which an
invitation soon followed. This was in
fact, so to speak, an old acquaintance,
though only on one side, my own. Dur-
ing my course of study at Jena, I had of-
ten enough seen the duke at the window
of his friend, the court apothecary, and,
with my comrades, sung Korner's songs
to him ; and, in company with my fellow
students, had been his guest in an un-
known manner, at the christening of his
grandson, the present reigning grand

duke ; I had also seen him at a modest
distance in Bonn, when he visited the
halls. He was now much interested in
our frescoes, and, with the help of my
drawing, I gave him a full explanation of
them. What I said before in relation to
Goethe, I found most fully applicable to
the grand duke, in whom the prince was
so hidden behind the man that only one's
own recollection perceived him. He ex-
pressed a strong desire to have some fresco
paintings in Weimar also, which I heard
with a somewhat premature joy.

On the ninth of November Goethe invited
me to dinner. " I hope," said he as I en-
tered, "to make you acquainted to-day
with the men who represent art among
us." And in fact a numerous and highly
interesting company was soon assembled.
Goethe introduced me to the chief architect
Coudray, who eagerly caught at the grand
duke's idea of the frescoes, and, seconded
with vivacity by Goethe, immediately des-
ignated the new burial hall as the place
where the paintings would show with most*
effect.

Our places at table were assigned to
us. Mine was between architect "Cou-
dray and councillor Henry Meyer, known
among artists by the title of "Kunscht-
Meyer,*' on account of his German-Swiss
pronunciation. Farther to the left sat
Goethe's daughter-in-law, Ottilia, and, op-
posite me, her charming sister, a young
lady full of life and spirit, was between
Goethe and his son. No word or look
escaped me of the man, who to-day seemed
to me, now like the Olympian Zeus, now
like the god of the muses, captivating all
hearts, enchaining all thoughts. He first
turned the conversation upon the painter
Asmus Carstens, and when I could not
repress the delight I had felt in his draw-
ings in the grand duke's collection, he said,
" Everything has itsiorderly course, and it
is a very significant fact that this genius,
from whom we date the beginning of the
new epoch of German art, should have
devoted himself especially to the poets
and thinkers of classical antiquity."

" That has kept him, however," said the
councillor, " from that unfortunate imita-
tion of the old German style, which his

148

A Visit to Goethe in Weimar.

[June,

followers have considered an imperative
duty."

" And yet," I remarked, "he was op-
posed as well as his followers; he was even
almost unknown in his fatherland, until
Cornelius touched the hearts of the people
in placing "Faust" before their eyes."

Goethe received this remark with mani-
fest pleasure, but added that Cornelius
had done right in leaving the forms bor-
rowed from the old German art which he
had used in his " Faust," when he engaged
in his present mythological task. I re-
peated a remark which Cornelius once
made to me, that the style must be deter-
mined by the object to be represented,
and that he should not now give to
"Faust" and the "Nibelungen," a different
mode of expression from his former one.
"This view," interrupted Eckermann,
" seems to confound poetry with painting.
For the latter, with its immediate impres-
sions upon the senses, we surely need
other laws, than where mere fancy and
imagination are concerned."

"There is a difference," remarked Goe-
the, "still I must agree with Cornelius,
for I could not have written Iphigenia
and Tasso in the style of Faust and Gotz,
nor the converse."

The conversation was interrupted in a
surprising manner, perhaps so only to my-
self. At one end of the table was a flutter,
a whispering, a light signal on a glass,
and a song in four voices was commenced.
It was the pleasant custom, as Eckermann
confided to me, to season the dinner with
songs on festive occasions, to the special
delight of Goethe, and, accordingly, this
day there was a song after every course.
Among others was the song, "Seizes me
— I know not how — a heavenly joy."
When it closed, Goethe proceeded: "Some
one ascribes to odors the peculiar power of
waking recollections. Music and song
act just as distinctly in the same way.
The evening for which I wrote the song
which had just been sung comes vividly
before me. It was on the departure of
our prince-royal for Paris, when a com-
pany of friends was around him. Schiller
had written for the same evening his well-
known song on the prince-royal, which

we sang to the tune of the "Rheinwein-
lied," and now it is all before me — the
evening, Schiller, the circle of friends, the
departure, everything to the minutest cir-
cumstance."

This recollection brought the company
almost to an adagio tone, and in order to
avert this, as it seemed to me, Madame
Ottilia directed the conversation from Goe-
the to myself. " You have told our father
and ourselves much that has been very
interesting, of your own and your friends'
artistic labors. Permit me now to ask a
question still nearer to the hearts of us
women: "How do you live with your
master, I mean in what social relations to
him ?"

"Like sons with a father," I replied.
"Many of us feel precisely like members
of his family. We spend many evenings
at his house ; the children hang about us
as if we were their uncles ; the master
talks to us with wonderful clearness and
precision, tells us about Rome, of his ex-
periences and his professional history, .of
the ancient and modern masters, of every
thing which moves the heart and elevates
the soul. We all hang on his words with
the deepest reverence. As he is always
in Munich on his birth-day, near the end
of June, we have selected the day of St.
Sylvester as his anniversary, in order to
give him a token of our gratitude. On
that day we have always gODe with torch-
es, music aDd songs in front of his house,
and poured out our hearts, and all Diissel-
dorf has taken part in it, like one family.
And now," I added, "this bond is broken,
Cornelius is gone, and we are all going
after him, for we can not think of living
without him, and Dusseldorf will attach
itself to others as it attached itself to us."

"One thing more," resumed Madame
Ottilia, you do not speak of the wife of
Cornelius. She is a Roman lady — does
she keep aloof from you ?"

"By no means," I replied, "She is kind
and friendly to every one, particularly to
the nearer friends of the family. She is
an ardent Roman, but still loves Germany
so well that she already speaks its lan-
guage very tolerably. We honor her as
the wife of our master, and, last May,

1865.]

A Visit to Goethe in Weimar.

149

when she recovered from a long and
dangerous illness, we celebrated her re-
covery by a festival in the woods, in which
it was doubtful whether youthful pleas-
ure seeking, glad sympathy, or the spring
time was the chief motive power. How-
ever it might be, many of us found our
way quickly to this sylvan festival."

This brought even my strong neighbor,
the Court Councillor Meyer, into a cheer-
ful mood. Until now, he had maintained,
if not displayed, the hostile attitude he
had taken in regard to modern German
art. Perhaps the thought came to him
that not every one who followed the new
banner must needs belong to the hated
" Nazarene ;" perhaps my last remarks
had softened him — in short, as champagne
was now sent round, Goethe raised his
glass, and, turning to me, said, "Let us
drink to the health of your master, and
happy success to his labors !" and Ecker-
mann and most of those sitting near us
followed his example, and when Goethe
added, " Greet your master cordially from
me, and say to him i-hat I have rejoiced
at all which you have told me of himself
and his school," Meyer also turned to me,
his glass in hand, hesitated, and went on
to say, as it seemed to me, in another
tone than the hard, dry one he had used
till now, " Tell your master that I drank
to his welfare with you in a glass of
champagne — I mean it sincerely," (which
I, of course, uot only promised at the
time, but also performed afterwards).
So it seemed as if our talk and contra-
diction had served to scatter prejudice,
where it had the firmest footing. After
dessert Hummel seated himself at the ins-
trument, and, with a clear, rich phantasy,
gave a brilliant ending to the little feast.

Goethe had handed me from his plate a
little Minerva in pastry, " in remembrance
of the divinity in whose temple we are
met;" after we left the table he said, " I
have given you a rather perishable re-
membrancer, I had better accompany it
with one more enduring," at the same
time placing in my hand a medal with his
likeness by Bory.

While at the table, I had been busy
considering in what way I could show my
Vol. I.

gratitude for such distinguished kindness,
and it occurred to me that I might draw
the likeness of Goethe's grandsons. I pro-
posed it to Madame Ottilia v. Goethe, and
gained the most friendly assent, and I
began my task the next morning.

The longer my stay in Weimar, the
more delightful it became. Through Goe-
the I made numerous acquaintances, and
I enjoyed anew, and to the fullest ex-
tent, the famous Thuringian hospitality,
well known to me from my earlier days.
Were I to say where I visited most fre-
quently I should especially mention Frau-
lein Seidler and Fraulein Julia V. Eglof-
stein, both not only at home in all
the spheres of art, but also accomplished
artists, and both highly valued by Goethe.
The families Coudray, Giinther, Froriep,
Rohr, Stark, and many others, showed
me great hospitality.

On the 13th of November, I was again
invited to dine with Goethe. This time
there were no strangers present beside
myself, except the architect Coudray and
Eckermann.

He had requested me to bring again
the drawing of "Theology," and I gave
to the little company a particular explan-
ation of it as a whole, and also of all the
details. I remember the scene distinctly.
Coudray looked more at the general ef-
fect, while Eckermann sought for the
hand of the master in every line. Mad-
ame Ottilia, who was present with her
boys, kindly incited me to conversation
by her questions, and Goethe, who was in
a particularly agreeable and genial mood,
took the lead in the conversation, and,
with grave kindliness, dispensed instruc-
tion and commendation like a divinity on
his sun-lit clouds.

Coudray objected strongly to the tech-
nicalities of fresco-painting lately re-intro-
duced into Germany by Cornelius. Eck-
ermann expressed great delight in them,
— " that little sheet so full of drawings —
so full of meaning" — and asked if por-
traits of the characters represented had
been attempted, which of course, could
not have been the case, especially in rela-
tion to the Evangelists and early Fathers.
In historical paintings, he said, much de-
10

150

A Visit to Goethe in Weimar.

[June,

pends upon historical truth, for which
reason he had a great aversion to anach-
ronisms and similar faults. We are ac-
customed in altar-pieces to the grouping
together of saints of different centuries —
but it seemed a bold thing to place the
reformers on the same canvass with the
Apostles and Fathers, and still more, to
show in the distance, through the arcades
of the hall, Rome, the Siebenzeling near
Bonn, and Wittenberg in one and the
same view. But Goethe answered him
by saying, " The gentlemen in Dusseldorf
seem to have adoptedSchiller's expression,
"Art is a fable," and they are not wholly
wrong ! But little of art would be left to
us if we excluded everything which we
can not grasp and understand as we do
our daily life."

Madame Ottilia here made a remark,
which, with Goethe's assistance, gave a
new turn to the conversation. " Else-
where in paintings," she said, "We usu-
ally think of the characters as bearing
some relation to each other. Here are so
many men together in one room, here and
there I see two, three, four, collected in a
group, but each stands by himself, they
read and speak without disturbing their
neighbors, and yet it does not trouble me,
it seems perfectly natural. The picture
seems to me like a library, where Evan-
gelists and Fathers, Protestants and Cath-
olics, with ail their spiritual contents stand
together, well-bound, without the slight-
est mutual interruption."

"Now," said Goethe, "That is worth
hearing, and as we are considering the
idea of the picture, I have still another
question to ask cur young friend. You
have told me," he said, turning to me,
" about the two geniuses at the sides of
the allegorical figure in the center. I see
that they have tablets in their hands.
There is no doubt as to the contents of
the tablets which the Evangelists, the
Fathers and Luther hold, but what is
meant by the blank tablets in the hands
of these winged figures ?"

" If I remember rightly my visit in
Bonn," said Eckermann, "There are le-
gends upon them, but I do not recollect
what they are."

" There is a pleasant bit of artistic his-
tory connected with those tablets," I re-
plied. The geniuses represent the two ele-
ments of Theology, Faith and Investiga-
tion. In order to represent them more
clearly, Hermann had put in their hands
the tablets inscribed, with texts of Scrip-
ture. The one contained the words " Hap-
py is he who hath not seen and yet be-
lieved," and the other, "Prove all things;
hold fast that which is good." Objection
was made to it in the Berlin ministry, I
do not know whether on the Catholic or
Protestant side, . and shortly afterwards
Hermann was directed, (I think by the
curator of the University) to eose the in-
scriptions. He objected on the ground
that, as your excellency has remarked, the
blank tablets would otherwise be unintel-
ligible, and even ludicrous. So it rested,
until shortly afterwards the visit of the
king of Prussia to Bonn was announced.
As he must bb invited to visit the Aula,
no doubt remained in the minds of the
heads of the University ; he must not see
the doubtful inscriptions. The order to
erase them was repeated. In vain ! "I
can not deny or mutilate my own con-
victions," said Hermann. Daily it was
examined ; the inscriptions remained as if
they were cast in iron. At length, on the
clay when the royal visit was expected,
Professor D' Alton came at an early hour,
and, finding the inscriptions still there, he
threatened an alternative which brought
me to a hasty conclusion." "We can not
bring the king here," said our anxious
friend, " if he is not to see that you respect
his wishes expressed through his minis-
ters." Hermann remained ■ immovable.
The moment was painful. The ministers all
meant so well by us, and, on the other hand,
the king's visit was so much desired, and I
was sure, too, that Cornelius would have
yielded in such circumstances. I looked
inquiringly at Hermann. "I can not do
it," said he. They gave me the brush,
and the inscriptions were erased. An hour
afterwards Frederick William III, attend-
ed by the curator and the professors of the
University, entered the hall, and spent five
or six minutes in examining our picture.
He seemed not to notice the dangerous

1865.]

A Visit to Goethe in Weimar.

151

tablets, but he might well have asked
with your excellency, "Why have they
no inscriptions ?"

The recital seemed to amuse Goethe.
"And yet," he said, "we are often thus
obliged to give up the Good in order to
preserve the Better!"

Meanwhile I had opened my port-folio,
containing various portraits, which Goethe
looked at with psychological and aesthetic
interest. Among them he suddenly per-
ceived the likenesses of his grandsons. It
was a surprise, (we had kept it a secret
from him) and a successful one. He ex-
pressed great gratification, which was in-
creased by my requesting him to accept
them from me.*

I had previously seen Goethe, first by
myself alone, then in a festive, almost
solemn assemblage, then, again, as the
genial host among numerous friends and
admirers ; to-day I saw him in the inti-
macy of his family circle. He was always
and everywhere the same, and yet each
time I was impressed by a new trait in
his character. To-day he was cheerful-
ness and good-nature itself, and wholly
unrestrained. He drew his son into the
conversation more than he had done at
the festival ; he was full of tender atten-
tions to his daughter-in-law, and with
her sister he talked charmingly with a
light captivating humor ; he was espec-
ially affectionate to the grandsons. He
led me on to talk of the life and character
of the people of the Lower Rhine, par-
ticularly of the carnival frolics of Cologne
and Diisseldorf, then he turned upon
Bavaria, from which, " according to the
reports of his friend," little was to be ex-
pected for art, in comparison with the
earnest Rhine land. "Meanwhile," he
said, "a prince with a strong will can

* "Wolf and Walther Goethe are now cham-
berlains in the service of the reigning grand
duke Alexander. The portraits, carefully
preserved by their grandfather, are now in
their possession, and highly valued, as they
kindly assured me of late. The likenesses
were then good, but I should not have recog-
nized the present chamberlains from them.

accomplish a great deal." Then he came
upon his favorite topic, colors, their adap-
tations, their combinations, strength, blen-
ding, treatment, and even the different ma-
terials of which they are made.

After we left the table he showed me
several of his collections, particularly one
of beautiful antique and mediaeval coins.
Suddenly he said " I will show you some-
thing else," (actually he thus spoke!) and
thereupon he took from a drawer some
sheets of etchings after designs by Cars-
tens. I do not know whether he meant
to give me pleasure, or merely wished to
: know what I would say about them ;
however, they were not long a subject of
conversation, as I found them too little
like their originals. I then took my leave.
When Goethe learned that I was to re-
main the next day in Weimar and leave
on the 15th, he invited me in the kindest
manner to visit him once again. I did so
on the 14th, and was received with the
same cordiality as before. It seemed to him
a necessity either to prepare some pleasure
for his visitors, or else to offer them some
visible material for conversation ; thus he
had ready for me a number of highly artis-
tic paper cuttings by Fraulein Adele Scho-
penhauer, and examined each one with
me, noticing the slightest things.

I shall never forget my leave-taking,
when I felt the full force of the happiness I
had experienced in being brought so near
to this great man. He spoke as if he were
.the indebted and enriched one, asked me
to write to him from time to time, and
taking my hand in both his, as at our first
meeting, though still more cordially, he
gave me, with many kind greetings, his
paternal good wishes for my journey.

On the 15th of November I was in Jena
and on the 17th I sent him the likeness of
his friend Kuchel which I had drawn for
him. It seemed to me as if I had come
down from the summit of Mount Blanc,
and from the most extended vision, into
the narrow valley. The remembrance of
those days on the heights has shone
through my whole life.

+~-

152

How to Treat Our Wives.

[June,

HOW TO TREAT OUR WIVES.

" Fiest catch your hare." This feat,
however, does not seem to be a difficult
one. Hunters are ingenious and indefati-
gable, and the game not over shy. What
mutual passion fails to accomplish, mas-
culine selfishness is usually competent to
complete, holding, as it always does, de-
sire and pride and will among its reserves.
The patent facts of evcry-day life prove
that the obtaining of a wife is not a diffi-
cult task. There are as many homes in
the land as men can afford to build or*
hire, and in every home there is a wife.
Indeed, in many of them there has been
a succession of wives. All the tall men,
all the short men, all the large men, all
the small men, all the good men, all the
bad men, all the generous men, all the
mean men, all the clean men, all the foul
men, — ministers, merchants, mechanics,
sailors, shoemakers, soap-boilers, dairy-
men, fishermen, lumbermen, farmers, fid-
dlers, furriers, butchers, bakers, candle-
stick-makers, have wives, nine out of
every ten of whom were secured without
any measurable degree of persuasion.
#Not only "Barkis," but ■• Peggoty," "is
willin'." So it does not seem necessary
to suggest to men anything touching the
treatment of women before marriage.
Men with favors to ask and selfish pur-
poses to achieve, are the politest, kindest,
most considerate creatures in the world.
Ah ! what delicious reminiscences of the
days of young love and courtship are at
the command of every wife in the land !
The pleasant rides, the sweet ices and
slices, the dainty gifts, timed with thought-
ful adaptation to holidays and birthdays,
the tender courtesies, the courteous ten-
dernesses, the endearments, the caresses,
the thousand-ancl-one nameless attentions,
that advertise the masculine passion to
the feminine idol are matters which many,
perhaps most wives, remember with a
sigh, because they are among pleasures
forever past, and because they were
pledges of an untiring devotion that have
not been redeemed. Ah! men, men,
men ! Miserable sinners are ye all, — not

always wickedly, not always wantonly,
too often weakly. Would it be strange if
your wives, looking back to your early
deeds and days, and seeing how much or
how little of genuine affection your atten-
tions represented, should find their souls
exceedingly filled with contempt ? Yes,
it would be strange, for women are not
like men. They see through you, but
they stick to you, like a fly to a window-
pane.

Leaving the records of divorce aside,
and passing by those cases of incompati-
bility which render marriage a mockery
and a misery, and making all possible al-
lowance for the follies and foibles of the
subordinate party to the marriage con-
tract, the fact still remains that men, in
multitudes and majorities of cases, grow
apathetic toward their wives, and incon-
siderate of the peculiar needs of their na-
tures. A thousand causes contribute to this
result, and men often descend into cold-
ness and downright impoliteness without
knowing the process which leads them
there, or suspecting the fact itself. Let us
look at some of these causes, in brief detail.

The first foe that marriage meets is mar-
riage itself. While the pursuit of a de-
sirable object is in progress, and failure
possible, every faculty is strained toward Q
attainment, and every available auxiliary
is brought to bear upon the same end.
There is excitement in it — often excite-
ment the most intense. It matters noth-
ing whether the object sought be a woman
or a wager. A man knows that to win a
woman of his choice he must please her ; so
he makes it a business to please her. He is
indefatigable in it. He does not mean to
be a hypocrite. His love is honest, or he
thinks it is. Weeks, months, years pass,
perhaps before the object of his affection
is secure to him. When marriage consum-
mates his desires and aims, he is at the
end of a long and exciting race. Posses-
sion brings reaction. Satiety breeds in-
difference. This is in accordance with
the laws of the human mind. It would

1865.]

How to Treat Our Wives.

153

found at last great wealth, or high posi-
tion, or any other prize for which men
strive. But this comes as a sort of shock,
from which there is earlier or later recov-
ery.

With a wife, too, conies a certain loss
of freedom, which is irksome to willful
natures. This a man (who is a very short-
sighted creature) never thinks of until af-
ter the object of his love is his. Waking
thoroughly to the consciousness that he is a
married man, he finds in his house a per-
son who has an absolute claim on his at-
tention, his time, his affection, and his ser-
vice. He is surrounded by new condi-
tons. All his movements must start from
a new center. Mr. Jones, before marriage,
could harness his pony and drive where
ever impulse might direct j but Mr. Jones,
after marriage, is obliged to remember that
Mrs. Jones is in the house, and would like
to accompany him, — a fact, considering
the way towards which the pony's head is
turned, and the old companions who live
on the way, that is not wholly agreeable
to Mr. Jones. A new item comes into all
his calculations. Mr. Jones is double in-
stead of single. Mr. Jones' life which
once was a skein of silk has become a
stick of twist, and the strand which he
contributed can not be separated from
its fellow without a snarl. Mr. Jones
finds himself tied to Mrs. Jones for life,
and also finds that a certain freedom of
movement which he enjoyed before mar-
riage can not, with propriety, be enjoyed
after marriage. This troubles Mr. Jones
a little. He has half a mind to rebel.
What business has a woman to interfere
with him? Perhaps he rebels with a
whole mind. Thousands do, and by the
failure to adapt themselves rationally to
their new conditions inaugurate a life of
discord or indifference.

Absorption in business and professional
pursuits is, perhaps, the grand cause of
estrangement between married lives. In
France, there is a saying that "tobacco is
the tomb of love " — French love, proba-
bly. In America, business is the tomb of
love. It is hard, if not impossible, for two
great passions to live in the heart at the
same time. It is as difficult to love wo-

man and mammon, as it is to serve God
and mammon. The love of a man for his
wife must be the grand, enduring, all-sub-
ordinating passion of his life, or woman
is defrauded of her right. The man who,
when his wife is won, turns the whole in-
terest and energy of his life into business,
making that an end which should only be a
means, is married only in name. There is
no narcotism of affection like the strong
love and ceaseless pursuit of money. Turn-
ing gradually away from the quiet society
of their wives, and the enjoyments of their
homes, most men yield themselves to the
pursuit of wealth, and in the fierce excite-
ments of their enterprise, lose a taste for
the calm delights of domestic life. At the
close of a day's labor, they bring home
weary bodies and worn minds. Nothing
is saved for their homes or their wives.
Th.eii- evenings are stupid and fretful, and
the pillow and forgetfulness are welcomed
as a release from ennui.

Mr. Jones is quite likely to be what is
caned " an excellent provider." He takes
a certain degree of pride in dressing his
wife and family well, furnishing them with
a good house, and surrounding them with
creature comforts. He fancies, indeed,
that by doing this he is testifying his re-
gard for Mrs. Jones, and proving his love
for her in a very tangible and substantial
way. It is in vain that Mrs. Jones as-
sures him that she would like more of
him and less of his provision. It is in
vain that she tells him that if he would
give her more of his society, she would
gladly excuse many of the good things
which he sends her as a substitute. He
does not believe in "love in a cottage,"
and for his life, can not tell what Mrs.
Jones finds to complain of. He is a man
of business, and thinks complacently that
he has surpassed the nonsense of youth and
the tame delights of early wedlock. He
has come to like strong flavors, and knows,
although he knows not why, that his heart
is growing dead within him. The charms
of Mrs. Jones fail to move him. The old
feeling of tenderness dies out of him. Her
sympathetic bosom is no more his refuge
and solace. The love of gain overshad-
ows his love of Mrs. Jones, and the pur-

154

How to Treat Our Wives.

[June,

suit of gain leaves hint no time for Mrs.
Jones.

In the meantime, what is the position of
Mrs. Jones ? Shut up in her house all
day, with no absorbing pursuit to take
the place of her absorbing love of Mr.
Jones, she passes her hours in the pleasant
hope of meeting her husband at dinner,
and spending her evening with him. She
is rearing Mr. Jones' children, and, after
all the care which they require, longs for
sympathy and solace from him to whom
she has given, once and forever, her whole
heart. His smiling approval, his appre-
ciating praise, his endearments, will pay
for everything. All these are her right.
Failing to get these, she grows sad, and,
in her heart, questions the honesty of the
love which her husband has professed for
her, questions her own ability to retain
his affection, questions the tie that unites
them, questions her destiny with sor-
rowful foreboding. She is driven in upon
herself, and feeds upon herself. Ah ! the
thousands and millions Of wives who,
slowly arriving at the consciousness that
the cares of this life and the deceitful-
ness of riches have hardened their hus-
bands' hearts, or stolen them, have
settled down into a hopeless round of
duties, and died at last athirst, aye,
starving, for the love which was pledged
to them at the altar !

But let us suppose that Mrs. Jones is
not the sort of person to succumb thus
readily to her lot. Suppose Mrs. Jones
is a spirited woman, who will not sub*
mit tamely to this hard issue of her
married life. She will do one of two
things — become Mr. Jones' accr>ser~~
a thorn in his side — a rebel, or <»u> will
institute a life independent of Mr. Jones.
If Mr. Jones will defraud her of her
rights, by making money, she will take
her rights in his coin. She will spend
money ; she will find her delights, her
solace, her pursuits in society. If Mr.
Jones will not make her home pleasant,
other people will be invited to do so.
If Mr. Jones will not make himself agree-
able, she will go where people are
agreeable. Her heart is hungry, her
life is without zest, her hopes are disap-

pointed, and she takes license from her
husband's essential infidelity to seek for
something, somewhere, which shall
make her life significant. If her hus-
band's heart is lost, it makes little prac-
tical difference with her whether it is"
stolen by mammon or Mary Ann. Love,
society, consideration, appreciation, she
must and will have ; and if she can not
get these where she has a claim upon
them, she will secure an outside supply.
Her husband has chosen his field of sat-
isfactions and chosen it independently
of her. She will take the position of
housekeeper and money-spender, which
Mr. Jones has assigned to her, and then
choose her field of satisfactions and so-
laces independently of him. When this
state of things becomes established, all
true family life is, of course, at an end.
Husband and wife entertain and main-
tain separate interests. Communion
ceases. If they are peaceable persons,
they get along reputably, and with a cer-
tain degree of comfort. If they are
quarrelsome persons, they will quarrel.
Many cases are different from this.
There is a class of employments which
make such great and persistent drafts
on physical strength — such exhaustive
demands upon the nervous forces —
that the minds of those who are sub-
jected to them become dull and apa-
thetic. In these cases, love shares the
poverty of all the affections. The man
who goes to sleep in church goes to sleep
in the chimney corner. The man who
finds no spirit of worship, no love of
God, no delicate appreciation of the
beauty of nature, no joy of immortality,
no aspiration, no inspiration, within
him, because the life has been worked
out of him, can hardly be expected to
have much love for his wife, or a very
delicate appreciation of her needs and
her ministries. Indeed, he readily learns
to speak of her as <; the old woman."
She is so far from being the wife of his
bosom, that she has become the wife of
his back. She makes his bed, cooks his
pot-luck, darns his stockings, is his
dairymaid, housemaid, washerwoman,
scullion and what-not. To say nothing

1865.]

of the wives of day-laborers, what is the
condition of affairs in innumerable farm-
ers' homes scattered over the land ?
How many caresses, how many kind,
considerate, loving words, how many
demonstrations of warm and devoted af-
fections, how many tender and sympa-
thetic attentions, does the wife of a hard
working farmer, ten years married, re-
ceive in the course of a twelve-month ?
How much does he strivo to lighten or
to sweeten her burdens ? If she is a
" mighty smart woman," and "does her
own work,"— if she can do "more work
than any three women he can hire," —
he tells it to his neighbors, perhaps; and,
sometimes, when she is looking at her
hard knuckles, or parting her thin and
gray-growing hair, she hears of his
boast, and gets such comfort out of it
as she can.

Exactly where relief is to come from in
cases like these, is not obvious. Hard
physical toil is not likely to cease, nor is
it probable that its natural effect is to be
suspended. Nothing but a rational appre-
hension of the real difficulty on the part of
men, and a better comprehension of the
nature of women, would seem to be ade-
quate to the work of reform. The far-
mer's wife learns her lot early, and doubt-
less malces the best of it. Perhaps her
own toil helps her to a sort of indifference,
and brings her into a harmony of feeling
with her husband beyond what would
seem possible to the observer. This is
worse, however, on the whole, than if she
were to retain her susceptibility to suffer-
ing. If a woman's sensibilities must be
spoiled before she can become comfortable,
if that which made her attractive and lov-
able as a maiden must be blotted out of
the mistress, in order that life may be tol-
erable to her, she is certainly bound to a
sad alternative of evils.

Woman is the natural bosom companion
of man. Her sympathetic constitution,
her independence of all his natural rival-
ries, her warm affection, attachment and
devotion, all designate her as his choicest
friend. There are few men of character
who find their best friendships among
those of their own sex. Strong wills,

IIoiv to Treat Our Wives.

155

selfish interests, positive tastes, the fear
of treachery, the love of eminence and
social dominion, all tend to keep men from
intimate communion with each other.
They meet on grounds of common polite-
ness, they shake hands, they speak pleas-
ant words to each other, they have, in
multitudes of instances, an honest friendly
interest in each other, but as a general
rule, every man says to every other man
"Thus far shalt thou come and no far-
ther." Not often does a man expose his
heart to the eye of men. Great men some-
times make companions and partial con-
fidants of small men, never of their equals.
Old men sometimes make companions of
young men — of those who do them reve-
rence ; but when one of their own age
appears, their mouths are shut, and they
re-assume their continence. Wherever
and whenever man meets man as an equal,
in age, or power, or dignity, there inter-
venes a veil through which communion is
impossible.

The trust, the faith, the confidence
which it is so hard for man to give to man,
it is easy for man to give to woman. She
is as different from him as if she belonged
to another race of beings. She does not
live in his world. She does not enter
into his competitions. She is not the
subject of his ambitions. It is her joy
and pride to give her love to a worthy,
manly nature, and to yield to it with ex-
clusive devotion all there is of sweetness
in her life, and this is precisely what is
necessary to induce a man to yield his
confidence. Here there is no danger of
misconstruction, no fear of treachery, no
shame. The heart in which he confides
is his, and his only. Its interests are
identical with his own. Mutual love be-
tween man and woman becomes an altar
on which, as a libation, they pour out the
secrets of their souls.

It is not safe to prophesy what is to be;
it is not easy to say what ought to be ;
but it is proper to state what is and has been
as regards a single phase of the much
mooted " woman question." Nothing^
is more certain than that the position of '
woman in all countries and in all ages is
what man has made it. Women may

156

How to Treat Our Wives.

[June,

clamor for an independent destiny, but
they never have had it, and they do not
seem to be nearer to their object for all
their clamoring. The fact remains that
woman stands just where man places
her. When man regards her as untrust-
worthy, she is untrustworthy; when he
treats her as the minister to his sensual
delights, she is generally nothing more
than such a minister. The sort of wo-
man whom Michelet describes is Miche-
let's wife. The characteristic French
woman is the woman whom the charac-
teristic Frenchman most desires and ad-
mires. It is not the woman who fashions
the idea of man, but it is the idea of
man that fashions the woman. An En-
glishwoman is the creation of English-
men, and well may Englishmen be
proud of their work. The Mormon wo-
man is what the Mormon man has made
her. The novice may revolt, but the
woman born into Mormonism will seek
no higher position for herself than what
Elder Kimball is pleased to bestow upon
the poor creatures whom he sportively
denominates his " cows." What is
true of women in this respect in all other
countries and all other ages, is true of
the American woman to-day. She is
precisely what the American man has
made her; and she is, viewed in every
aspect, the best woman that the sun
shines upon. She has been developed
under the influence of free institutions.
Free education and free society have
made her a free woman. Reared in an
atmosphere of confidence, trusted from
youth beyond all other women, trained
from childhood in the use of liberty, she
has grown up virtuous, trustworthy, in-
telligent, helpful and noble. She re-
ceives more consideration, more polite-
ness, more genuine respect, for that
which is womanly in her character, than
, the women of any other nation secure
* from their countrymen. Whatever our
foes may say about the national devotion
to the almighty dollar, the American
woman is the American's idol.

Added to all this freedom of intellec-
tual and social development, which the
woman of America enjoys, she receives
the sanctifying influence of a free relig-

ion, a religion less hampered by conven-
tions, forms and superstitions than is
found to prevail in any other country.
The typical American woman is a relig-
ious woman. Her religious nature flow-
ers early, and bears fruit long. It is the
women of America who crowd the
churches. It is the women of America
who train and teach the children and
youth. It is the women of America who
are first in every good work. During all
the long and terrible war from which the
nation has just emerged, her constant
ministry has surrounded every battle-
field and hospital and scene of suffering
with the halo of Christian charity. The
sacrifices and services of the American
woman during the last four years are
unexampled in the history of Christian
patriotism. In the sewing circle, in the
hospital, in the closet, in the prayer-
meeting, in the railroad car, and where-
ever the army blue designates a soldier,
she has taken the position of a partici-
pant in the great struggle. She has en-
couraged every loyal fighting man by
her freely spoken patriotism and her
undisguised sympathy, and has stood by
the sick and wounded with every com-
fort within the reach of her ministering
hand. Giving her whole heart and life
to the men of America, in their contest
with treason, she has vindicated her
claim- to a place by his side in all the
glories of the war and a partnership in
all its triumphs.

The American woman is intelligent,
virtuous, sprightly, energetic, loyal and
Christian. By these qualities she wins
her way to the respect and love of Amer-
ican men, and American men require
that she shall possess all these qualities,
or seem to, before she shall possess
them. Now this is the woman, and
this the sort of woman who is the sub-
ject of the neglect noticed in this arti-
cle. It is a shame to American hus-
bands that marriage has had compara-^
tively little to do with the development-',
of the American woman. She has been
made what she is by those general in-
fluences under which her early charac-
ter was formed. Good mothers, healthy
public opinion, competent education,

1865.]

How to Treat Our Wives.

157

wide reading, Christian culture, these
develop the American woman. Mar-
riage, for some bad reason, seems to de-
stroy her. Her mental development is
quite apt to cease from the moment of
marriage. Her accomplishments die
out, her charms fade, her spirits flag,
her health droops ; and she who should
grow only more beautiful, in a mature
and matronly way until she is fifty, looks
old at thirty, and dies to society just
when she should be one of its most val-
uable elements, and beautiful ornaments.
Now mark the anomaly which this
state of things presents. The American
woman is what the American man re-
quires her to be, and what American
institutions and influences enable her
to be. There is constant and fruitful
effort on the part of men to secure for
their daughters and for general female
society, the best advantages for edu-
cation and culture ; and these same
men do this with wives in their homes
who are treated little better than house-
keepers. They are not regarded as
partners ; they are not treated as intim-
ate and confidential companions. Equal-
ity of position, identity of interest, com-
munity of aims, affectionate and consid-
erate tenderness and respectfulness of
demeanor, thorough sympathy that
shows itself in all private and family in-
tercourse, certainly do not prevail be-
tween American husbands and wives,
when regarded in the aggregate. Some
will be disposed to deny this who only
see life under some of its more favored
phases ; but those who are acquainted
with all classes, in city and country,
can not fail to recognize the truthfulness
of the statement. Women are denied
the sympathy and society of their hus-
bands to a shameful extent. They are
kept in a position of dependence, and
made to feel their dependence, they are
made to ask for money for their personal
use, and compelled to feel like mendi-
cants in doing it. There are multitudes
of wives — supposed to be well married
— who never approach their husbands for
money without a sense of humiliation.
Now any man who compels the woman
of his love to do this, insults her wo-

manhood, degrades her, denies essen-
tially his marriage vows, and does his
best to kill out her respect for him, and
to make the connubial bond an irksome
one. A wife who is made to feel that she
is a beggar, is no longer a wife, except
in name. A wife who is compelled to
feel that she has no rights except those
which her husband accords to her, from
hour to hour, loses her spirit and her
self-respect, and becomes a menial, in
feeling and in fact.

The American woman is worthy of
better treatment than this. Indeed, the
American woman is a better being than
the American man. She can do as much
for man as man can do for her, and she
only needs to receive at the hands of
man that which he has pledged to her
at the altar, to be enabled to add to his
life its highest charm, and to crown
his life with its best reward. For it is
love, after all, that feeds us, and not
money. It is in the affections that a
man finds his best satisfactions. He
who permits his business or his pursuit
of wealth to absorb all his interest and
all his power sins as deeply against his
own soul as he does against his wife.
He not only puts away from himself the
sweetest sources of happiness, but he
spoils his capacity for happiness. If
husbands could only understand that
their wives care more for them and their
sympathy and society than they do for
anything else, and that without these
they really have nothing, it seems as
if the ordinary impulses of benevo-
lence would be sufficient to lead them to
a better keeping of their early promises.
A good wife is a treasure — she is better
even than when Solomon pronounced
her, " a good thing," for the American
material is better than the Jewish article
was in his time. She deserves and
should receive from her husband the
tenderest consideration, the most gener-
ous respect, the fullest confidence, at
all places, at all times, in all circum-
stances. She should be his bosom friend,
and the husband who denies her this
place denies her her right, and tramples
upon the most sacred compact that two
human beings can institute and maintain.

158

"In Memoriam"

[June,

IN MEMORIAM.'

I leave to other and abler pens the
proper eulogy of Me. Lincoln, as a ruler,
and a statesman, and the estimate of his
work and place in history. Favored dur-
ing the past year with six months' famil-
iar intercourse with him under the same
roof, be it my pleasant task to recall and
record for the gratification of those who
never came into personal contact with the
great and good man, some incidents, of
interest now as illustrations of his char-
acter and daily life, mostly the result of
my own observation.

There is a very natural and proper de-
sire, at this time, to know something of
the religious experience of the late Presi-
dent. Statements are in circulation in this
connection, which, to those who knew
him intimately, seem so unlike him, that
for one I venture to enter my protest, and
to assert that I believe such stories, either
' to be wholly untrue, or the facts in the
case to have been unwarrantably embel-
lished^ Of all men in the world, Mr. Lin-
coln was the most unaffected and truthful.
He rarely or never used language loosely
or carelessly, or for the sake of compli-
ment. He was the most utterly indiffer-
ent to, and unconscious of, the effect he
was producing, either upon dignitaries or
the common people, of any man ever in
public position.

Mr. Lincoln could scarcely be called a
religious man, in the common acceptation
of the term, and yet a sincerer Christian
I believe never lived. A constitutional
tendency to dwell upon sacred things ; an
emotional nature which finds ready ex-
pression in religious conversation and re-
vival-meetings ; the culture and develop-
ment of the religious element till the ex-
pression of religious thought and experi-
ence becomes almost habitual, were not
among his characteristics. Doubtless he
felt as deeply upon the great questions of
the soul and eternity as any other thought-
ful man, but the very tenderness and hu-
mility of his nature would not permit the
exposure of his inmost convictions, except
upon the rarest occasions, and to his most

intimate friends. And yet, aside from
emotional expression, I believe no man
had a more abiding sense of his depend-
ence upon God, or faith in the Divine
government, and in the power and ulti-
mate triumph of Truth and Right in the
world. In the language of an eminent
clergyman of this city, who lately deliv-
ered an eloquent discourse upon the life
and character of the departed President,
"It is not necessary to appeal to apocry-
phal stories, in circulation in the news-
papers— which illustrate as much the as-
surance of his visitors as the depth of his
own sensibility — for proof of Mr. Lincoln's
Christian character." If his daily life, and
various public addresses and writings, do
not show this, surely nothing can demon-
strate it.

But while impelled to disbelieve some
of the assertions upon this subject, much
commented upon in public as well as pri-
vate, I feel at liberty to relate an incident
in this connection, which I have not seen
published, and which bears upon its face
unmistakable evidence of truthfulness.
A lady interested in the work of the
Christian Commission, had occasion, in
the prosecution of her duties, to have sev-
eral interviews with the President of a
business nature. He was much impressed
with the devotion and earnestness of pur-
pose she manifested, and on one occasion,
after she had discharged the object of her
visit, he leaned back in his chair and said

to her : " Mrs. , I have formed a very

high opinion of your Christian character,
and now as we are alone, I have a mind
to ask you to give me, in brief, your idea
of what constitues a true religious expe-
rience." The lady replied at some length,
stating that, in her judgment, it consisted
of a conviction of one's own sinfulness and
weakness, and personal need of the Sav-
iour for strength and support ; that views
of mere doctrine might and would differ,
but when one was really brought to feel his
need of Divine help, and to seek the aid of
the Holy Spirit for strength and guidance,
it was satisfactory evidence of his having

1865.]

Li MemoriamS

159

been born again. This was the substance
of her reply. When she had concluded,
Mr. Lincoln was very thoughtful for a few
moments, lie at length said very ear-
nestly, "If what you have told me is
really a correct view of this great sub-
ject, I think I can say with sincerity, that
I hope I am a Christian. I had lived,"
he continued, "until my boy Willie died,
without realizing fully these things. That
blow overwhelmed me. It showed me
my weakness as I had never felt it before,
and if I can take what you have stated as
a test, I think I can safely say that I know
something of that change of which you
speak, and I will further add, that it has
been my intention for some time, at a
suitable opportunity, to make a public
religious profession!"

The desire to know of the inner expe-
rience of one whose outward life had so
impressed him, and his own frank and
simple utterance thereupon, are so char-
acteristic as to render this account, which
was given me by a friend, extremely prob-
able. He was not what I would call a
demonstrative man. He would listen to
the opinions of others on these subjects
with great deference, even if he was not
able to perceive their force, but would
never express what he did not feel in re-
sponse. I recollect his once saying, in a
half soliloquy, when we were alone, just
after he had been waited upon by a com-
mittee or delegation, with reference to se-
curing his cooperation in having the name
of God inserted in the Constitution: "Some
people seem a great deal more concerned
about the letter of a thing, than about its
spirit" or words to this effect.

Too much has not been said of his uni-
form meekness and kindness of heart, but
there would sometimes be afforded evi-
dence, that one grain of sand too much
would break even this camel's back.
Among the callers at the White House
one day, there was an officer who had
been cashiered from the service. He had
prepared an elaborate defence of himself
which he consumed much time in reading
to the President. When he had finished,
Mr. Lincoln replied that even upon his
own statement of the case the facts would

not warrant executive interference. Dis-
appointed, and considerably crest-fallen
the man withdrew. A few days afterward,
he made a second attempt to alter the
President's convictions, going over sub-
stantially the same ground, and occupying
about the same space of time, but without
accomplishing his end. The third time he
succeeded in forcing himself into Mr. Lin-
coln's presence, who with great forbearance
listened to another repetition of the case,
to its conclusion, but made no reply.
Waiting for a moment, the man gathered
from the expression of his countenance
that his mind was unconvinced. Turning
very abruptly, he said, " Well Mr. Presi-
dent, I see that you are fully determined
not to do me justice !" This was too ag-
gravating even for Mr. Lincoln. Mani-
festing, however, no more feeling than
that indicated by a slight compression o\
the lips, he very quietly arose, laid dowi.
a package of papers he held in his hand,
and then suddenly seizing the defunct of-
ficer by the coat collar, he marched bin
forcibly to the door, saying as he ejectec
him into the passage, " Sir, I give you
fair warning never to show yourself in
this room again. I can bear censure, but
not insult !" In a whining tone the man
begged for his papers which he had drop-
ped. "Begone, sir," said the President,
"Your papers will be sent to you. I never
wish to see your face again !"

Late one afternoon a lady with two
gentlemen were admitted. She had come
to ask that her husband, who was a pris-
oner of war, might be permitted to take
the oath and be released from confine-
ment. To secure a degree of interest on
the part of the President, one of the gen-
tlemen claimed to be an acquaintance of
Mrs. Lincoln ; this however received but
little attention, and the President pro-
ceeded to ask what position the lady's
husband held in the rebel service. "Oh,"
said she, "he was a captain." "A cap- l
tain," rejoined Mr. Lincoln, "indeed, ,
rather too big a fish to set free simply upon
his taking the oath ! If he was an officer, •
it is proof positive that he has been a zeal- '
ous rebel; I can not release him." Here
the lady's friend reiterated the assertion

160

"In Memoriam."

[June,

of his acquaintance with Mrs. Lincoln.
Instantly the President's hand was upon
the bell-rope. The usher in attendance
answered the summons. " Cornelius,
take this man's name to Mrs. Lincoln,
and ask her what she knows of him?"
The boy presently returned with the reply
that " the Madam " (as she was called by
the servants) knew nothing of him what-
ever. " It is just as I suspected," said the
President. The party made one more at-
tempt to enlist his sympathy, but without
effect. "It is of no use," was the reply,
"lean not release him!" and the trio
withdrew in high displeasure.

One day the Hon. Thaddeus Stevens
called with an elderly lady, in great
trouble, whose son had been in the army,
but for some offence had been court-mar-
tialed, and sentenced either to death or
imprisonment at hard labor for a long
term, I do not recollect which. There
were some extenuating circumstances, and
after a full hearing the President turned
to the representative and said : " Mr. Ste-
vens, do you think this is a case which
will warrant my interference ?" "With my
knowledge of the facts and the parties,"
was the reply, " I should have no hes-
itation in granting a pardon." " Then, " re-
turned Mr. Lincoln, "I will pardon him,"
and he proceeded forthwith to execute
the paper. The gratitude of the mother
was too deep for expression, save by her
tears, and not a word was said between
her and Mr. Stevens until they were half
way down the stairs on their passage out,
when she suddenly broke forth in an ex-
cited manner with the words, "I knew it
was a copperhead lie!" "What do you
refer to, madam?" asked Mr. Stevens.
" Why, they told me he was an ugly look-
ing man," she replied with vehemence.
" He is the handsomest man I ever saw
in my life!" And surely for that moth-
er, and for many another, throughout the
land, no carved statue of ancient or mod-
ern art, in all its symmetry, ever can have
the charm which will forevermore encircle
that care-worn but gentle face, expressing
I as wras never expressed before, "Malice

TOWAED NONE CHARITY FOE ALL."

Never shall I forget the scene early one

morning, when, with the help of some of
the workmen and special police at the
capitol, the large painting upon which I
was engaged during the six months I was
with Mr. Lincoln, representing the Presi-
dent and cabinet in council on the Eman-
cipation Proclamation, was first lifted to a
place, temporarily, in the Kotunda. Short-
ly after it was fixed in its position over the
northern door leading to the Senate, a ray
of sunshine came struggling in from the
upper part of the great dome, and fell di-
rectly upon the face and head of the be-
loved President, leaving all the rest of the
picture in shadow. "Look!" exclaimed
one of the policemen, pointing to the can-
vass, in a burst of enthusiasm, "that is as
it should be, God bless him ; may the sun
shine upon his head for ever!"

My attention has been two or three
times called to a paragraph now going
the rounds of the newspapers concern-
ing a singular apparition of himself in a
looking glass, which Mr. Lincoln is stat-
ed to have seen on the day he was first
nominated at Chicago. The story as told
is quite incorrect, and is made to appear
very mysterious, and believing that the
taste for the supernatural is sufficiently
ministered unto, without perverting
the facts, I will tell the story as the
President told it to John Hay, the assist-
ant private secretary, and myself. We
were in his room together about dark
the evening of the Baltimore Convention.
The gas had just been lighted, and he
had been telling us how he had that
afternoon received the news of the nomi-
nation of Andrew Johnson, for Vice Presi-
dent before he heard of his own.

It seemed that the dispatch announc-
ing his re-nomination had been sent to his
office from the War department, while he
was at lunch. Directly afterward, with-
out going back to the official chamber,
he proceeded to the War department.
While there the telegram came, announc-
ing the nomination of Johnson. "What,"
said he to the operator, " do they nomi-
nate a Vice President before they do a
President?" "Why," replied the as-
tonished official, have you not heard of
your own nomination ? It was sent to

1865.]

" In McmoriamS

1G1

the White House two hours ago." "It
is all right," replied the President, '* I
shall probably find it on my return."

Laughing pleasantly over this inci-
dent, he said, soon afterward, •' a very
singular occurrence took place the day
I was nominated at Chicago four years
ago, which I am reminded of to-night.
In the afternoon of the day, returning
home from down town, I went up stairs
to Mrs. Lincoln's sitting room. Feeling
somewhat tired I laid down upon a couch
in the room directly opposite a bureau
upon which was a looking glass. As I
reclined, my eye fell upon the glass and
I saw distinctly two images of myself,
exactly alike, except that one was a lit-
tle paler than the other. I arose, and
laid down again with the same result.
It made me quite uncomfortable for a
few moments, but some friends coming
in, the matter passed out of my mind.
The next day while walking in the street,
I was suddenly reminded of the circum-
stance, and the disagreeable sensation
produced by it returned, I had never
seen any thing of the kind before, and
did not know what to make of it. I de-
termined to go home and place myself
in the same position, and if the same ef-
fect was produced, I would make up my
mind that it was the natural result of
some principle of refraction or optics,
which I did not understand, and dismiss
it." I tried the experiment with the
same result, and as I had said to myself,
accounting for it on some principle un-
known to me, it ceased to trouble me."
" But," said he, " sometime ago, I
tried to produce the same effect here,
by arranging a glass and couch in the
same position, without success." He
did not say, as is asserted in the story
as printed, that either he or Mrs. Lin-
coln attached any omen to it whatever.
Neither did he say that the double re-
flection was seen while he was walking
about the room. On the contrary it was
only visible in a certain position and at
a certain angle, and therefore he thought
could be accounted for upon scientific
principles. I hare mentioned this story
only to show upon what a slender foun-

dation a marvelous account may bo
built !

At one of the " levees," a year ago last
winter, during a lull in the hand-shaking,
he was addressed by two familiar lady
friends, one of whom is now the wife of
a member of the cabinet. Turning to them
with a weary air, he remarked that it was
a relief to have now and then those to
talk to, who had no favors to ask. The
lady referred to is a strong radical — a "New
Yorker by birth — but for many years a
resident with her husband at the West.
She replied, playfully, " Mr. President, I
have one request to make." "Ah!" said
heat once, looking grave; "well, what
is it ?" " That you suppress the infamous

" (mentioning a prominent

Western journal) was the rejoinder. Af-
ter a brief pause, Mr. Lincoln asked her
if she had ever tried to imagine how she
would have felt, in some former adminis-
tration to which she was opposed, if her
favorite newspaper had been seized by
the government and suppressed. The
lady replied that it was not a parallel case,
that in circumstances like those then ex-
isting, when the nation was struggling for
its very life, such utterances as were daily
put forth in that journal, should be sup-
pressed by the strong hand of authority ;
that the cause of loyalty and good gov-
ernment demanded it. "I fear you do
not fully comprehend," returned the Presi-
dent, "the danger of abridging the liber-
ties of the people. Nothing but the very
sternest necessity can ever justify it. A
government had better go to the veiy ex-
treme of toleration, than to do aught that
could be construed into an interference
with, or to jeopardize in any degree the
common rights of its citizens."

One more example of the exercise of
the pardoning power, will conclude this
brief sketch. It may excite a smile, as well
as a tear ; but it may be relied upon as a
veritable relation of what actually trans-
pired. A distinguished citizen of Ohio
had an appointment with the President
one evening at six o'clock. As he entered
the vestibule of the White House, his at-
tention was attracted by a poorly-clad
young woman who was violently sobbing.

162

"In Memoriam.

[June,

He asked her the cause of her distress.
She said that she had been ordered away
by the servants, after vainly waiting many
hours to see the President about her only
brother, who had been condemned to
death. Her story was this : She and her
brother were foreigners, and orphans.
They had been in this country several
years. Her brother enlisted in the army,
but, through bad influences, was induced
to desert. He was captured, tried and
sentenced to be shot — the old story. The
poor girl had obtained the signatures of
some persons who had formerly known
him, to a petition for a pardon, and, alone,
had come to Washington to lay the case
before the President. Thronged as the
waiting rooms always were, she had pass-
ed the long hours of two days trying in
vain to get an audience, and had at length
been ordered away.

The gentleman's feelings were touch-
ed. He said to her that he had come to
see the President, but did not know as
he should succeed. He told her, how-
ever, to follow him up stairs and he
would see what could be done for her.
Just before reaching the door Mr. Lin-
coln came out, and meeting his friend
said good humoredly, "Are you not
ahead of time ?' ' The gentlemen showed
him his watch with the hand upon the
hour of six. "Well," returned Mr.
Lincoln, I have been so busy to-day
that I have not had time to get a lunch.

Go in, and sit down, I will be back di-
rectly."

The gentleman made the young woman
accompany him into the office, and
when they were seated, said to her,
"Now my good girl, I want you to mus-
ter all the courage you have in the world.
When the President comes back, he will
sit down in that arm-chair. I shall get
up to speak to him, and as I do so, you
must force yourself between us, and in-
sist upon his examination of your pa-
pers, telling him it is a case of life and
death, and admits of no delay." These
instructions were carried out to the let-
ter. Mr. Lincoln was at first somewhat
surprised at the apparent forwardness
of the young woman, but observing her
distressed appearance, he ceased con-
versation with his friend, and com-
menced an examination of the document
she had placed in his hands. Glancing
from it to the face of the petitioner,
whose tears had broken forth afresh, he
studied its expression for a moment and
then his eye fell upon her scanty, but
neat dress. Instantly his face lighted
up. " My poor girl," said he, "you
have come here with no governor, or
senator or member of congress, to plead
your cause. You seem honest and truth-
ful; mid you don't wear hoops — and I
will be whipped, but I will pardon your
brother."

SONNET.

Oh thou sad watcher, by the pool whose wave

Bears fortune, honor, all that earth can give,
Without one friendly hand outstretched to save,

To guide thy trembling steps and bid thee live!
Fear not — lo ! comes the Mighty Master's step,

Steps that have trod the boundless realms above,
His eye — that awful eye which never slept,

Is bent on thee, with pity and witli love ;
The voice which called Creation to its birth,

And spoke in thunder from the mountain's brow-*-
Softer than south wind o'er the flower-decked earth

Breathes comfort to thy broken spirit now:
"Arise and walk! and at my altar bow,

My home in Heaven is filled with such as thou!

1865.]

Odd Kinds of Ability.

1G3

ODD KINDS OF ABILITY.

There are many kinds of ability which
metaphysicians and theologians make lit-
tle account of. They ring the changes on
"moral'' and "natural," but the mass of
men trouble themselves little with their
distinctions. They assume that there is
such a thing as ability, and one of the
most important questions they ask of
their fellows is, what is such or such a
man's abilty.

Perhaps if they were asked to define
what they meant, they would be at a loss
how to do it. A man's ability may be
made up of very different elements. It
may suffice for one thing and not for
another. Blondin could perform feats
which would astonish Caesar or Gustavus
Adolphus. A French cook could pro-
duce dishes that would defy all the arts
of the world's great strategists. A ven-
triloquist could surprise thousands who
would be little moved by the eloquence
of a Chatham or a Webster. A Chinese
magician can work wonders which Sir
Isaac Newton or Herschel might vainly
essay to imitate ; and an Indian scout can
track a fugitive, where Baker's detectives
would lose the scent.

The king of Dahomey no doubt thinks
himself an able man. So did Beau Brum-
mcll. So does the sharper with his Fagin
genius. Each is great in his way, but it
may be a very small way, a very mean
way, or a very cruel wTay. A Jonathan
Wild may be the hero of his own circle,
and a petty African chieftain may ask,
"What do they think of me in Europe?"
There are kinds of ability which enable a
man to rival a monkey or a beaver, a ti-
ger or a deer. There are still other kinds
to which aMilo carrying a calf till it grew
to an ox, or a prize-fighter with his disci-
plined muscles may aspire. Then there
is the ability of the old monk, who told
the people that no ordinary man ought to
drink more than two bottles of wine, but
that God had given him the ability to
drink fifteen and still know his right hand
from his left. There is the ability of the
old Roman epicure, who could sit through

his feast without taking r.a emetic to
make room for a new course. There is
the ability of the savage who can eat and
sleep and fast like an anaconda, or feed on
roots where a white man would starve.

So in the literary world there; are vari-
ous kinds of ability. A man may be an
able plagiarist, like the importer that in-
truded more than a hundred years ago
into a Philadelphia pulpit, and whom
Franklin was cheated into patronizing.
Horace makes mention of an able poet —
whom he regarded as a nuisance — a man
that could compose three hundred lines,
stans itno.pede* An English writer had
once as much fame probably, for his memo-
ry as for his wit, for he was reported to be
able to walk through Cheapside in Lon-
don, and then report the name on every
sign. Zerah Colburn was a perfect prodi-
gy with figures. The old Puritan Pry-
nne, was one of the most voluminous, as
he is now one of the least read of authors.
An Italian improvisatore might put a
Moore or a Byron to the blush.

So there is an official ability by which
place or rank makes an able man. It is
wonderful to see what genius is developed
by a seat on the bench, or by the popular
election of some rustic aspirant who drops
his plough to act the senator. Cowper
took note of this when he said :

"An office with an income at its heels,
Will furnish oil for greasing its own wheels."

A marvelous development will some-
times take place when a Mike Walsh
graduates an honorable, or when the
lounger on of a caucus is made a judge.
Out of the shell of obscurity is hatched
an eagle. The man who never mastered
Worcester's geography, can talk of tariffs,
currency, nisi prius and demurrer. He
who has never aspired to any thing about
drugs, can medicate the state. Just as
Antoeus, by contact with the earth, be-
came more than a match for Hercules,
so a third rate pettifogger, by treading

* Standing on one foot.

164

Lake Geneva, and its Associations.

[June,

the floor of Congress, feels himself a
match for a Webster. Imbecility takes
the chair, and the chair makes imbecility
venerable.

But the ability of self-conceit must not
be overlooked. There are some men who
are powerful to blow their own trumpet.
Their memory is wonderful. They never
forget their own titles. Their strength is
remarkable, or in place of it their ingenu-
ity. They make or find a foremost place
in pageants and processions. Every in-
telligent man might envy the confidence
with which they express their opinions.
Their tone of assurance is that of Sir Or-
acle. The uninitiated look up to them,
as a violet might be supposed to look up
at a sun-flower. All their learning is at
their finger's ends, and they make the
most of it. Their grain of gold is ham-
mered out till it covers the balloon of their
vanity. Perhaps they scorn Anglo-Sax-
on simplicity of speech as the dialect of
clowns, and revel to the astonishment of
rustics in sesquipedalia. In five minutes'
conversation you will know their history.
They will dextrously contrive to let you
understand that they have corresponded
with Thackeray, or dined with the Czar
of Russia. The great events of their
lives are so familiar by repetition that

like the buckets of a grain mill, they are
always coming up.

There are other kinds of ability which
would bear exhibition just as well. The
world trudges on through its tedious cen-
turies by the help of them. They con-
fer fame in their clay — a waning glory at
least. They are registered by penny-a-
liners in the daily paper. They flame
out in large letters on placards. They
figure in Dunciads. They wake echoes
in caucuses and theatres. Sometimes
they create a sensation. Sometimes they
are a nine days wonder. Dominie Samp-
son would stare at them and exclaim,
"prodigious!" Almanac makers, econo-
mizing their material .would note them
down for the twenty-ninth of February.
A Horace Walpole would allow them a
niche in his museum of gossip. Village
journalists would lay by the record of
them for a vacuum in their columns.

One's ambition may be easily gratified
if he is not particular about the ability
to which he aspires. There are kinds
enough to match the varied assortments
of a toy-shop, and they may be graduated
to the taste of customers. But it might
remain a question whether to purchase
them might not be furnishing a commen-
tary on Franklin's tin whistle.

LAKE GENEVA, AND ITS ASSOCIATIONS.

"If any traveler would become inter-
ested in a lake, let him go and reside a
week upon its banks before exploring it."
Such was the advice given us by an Eng-
lish gentleman on the morning when we
left Basle for lake Geneva. Very super-
fluous it seemed to us — the idea of being
under the necessity of becoming interested
in lake Geneva. We half resent the im-
plication conveyed in the advice, and there
is a tinge of coldness in our parting from
our excellent friend.

But the nearer we approach the lake,
the more sensible the advice seems, and
we are only too ready to plead weariness
and — engage rooms for a week at the Ho-
tel Byron.

The Hotel Byron stands — no where —
that is, we never heard the name of any
town in which it was located. It is close
to the banks of the lake, only one mile
and a half from Villeneuve, which forms
the eastern point.

Pleasant rooms we found waiting for
us, rooms whose balconies hung out to-
ward the waters, upon which we could
sit hour after hour of those beautiful sum-
mer days, and grow into closer acquaint-
ance and communion with this long-
known, long-loved friend.

There we were in the morning, when the
first light of day shone down on the blue
depths, as if it half mistook them for the
sky above. At noon we watched the

1865.]

Lake Geneva, and its Associations.

165

shifting, changing shadows, as the moun-
tains on our right gave place to the snow-
clad hills, which had impatiently waited
to see themselves in the glassy mirror, re-
minding us of a fair bevy of girls " taking
turns " at the looking glass. At twilight
— but we were never on the balcony at
twilight. No sooner did the sun begin to
drop slantingly down, than there was a
rush among the tourists. Little boats
that had slumbered all day long in some
quiet nook, now, like newly awakened
children, darted out upon the lake, and
danced up and down its leaping waters,
filled with brown-hatted English girls,
and stout, red-faced "papas and ma-
mas." Wheels began to rattle noisily
upon the smooth, graveled drives around
the house, and old, stiff horses, which had
stood for hours with eyes shut, in pensive
meditation on the hardness of their lot,
stretched their spavined limbs, and held
up their necks, with a grotesque and of-
ten painful effort to assume a holiday ap-
pearance. Drivers snapped their whips,
and drew in their reins to give style to
their equipages, and finally rattled away
again, filled to overflowing, toward — oh
anywhere, out of Ihe dozen of the most
charming rides the wTorld affords.

We rode, we boated, we walked, and
every night as we shut our eyes upon the
day "well spent," we thanked our Eng-
lish friend, for his sage advice.

The week passed all too quickly, and
one night we took our seats for the last
time upon our balcony, and said to our-
selves, over and over again, look now, so
that you shall never forget : and shall we
ever ? The pen pauses, as we recall the
two words, never forget.

Send your luggage by a porter, and
walk to Villeneuve, remembering eveiy
step of the way, that you are "leaving
your footprints on the sands of time," for
along that path you may walk no more.
Already the steam whistle is echoing
among those silent hills — a truce to your
romantic cogitations ; there is no romance
in having your luggage carried off in a
strange steamboat in a stranger land,
while you stand sky-gazing ; so, grasp
your shawl and umbrella, all your relics
Vol. I.

and bags, and hurry on board ! You are
not in England, though your vessel looks
staunch, and if you should shut your eyes
you might fancy you were, from the num-
ber of persons who are speaking your na-
tive tongue ; but there is too much bustle,
too much irregularity, in the starting of
those paddles ; however, they move at
last, and you are beginning your first sail
through lake Geneva.

Was there ever a human being who
found these first sensations precisely what
he expected ? Perhaps there may have
been, and for such we must apologize for
our attention for the first ten minutes, be-
ing wholly occupied by our traveling com-
panions. There were many tourists on
board; some of them had come from
Chamouni. We know them by their sat-
isfied, rather supercilious air, and their
Alpine stocks. There is a young English
girl, with a bunch of the " Rose dea
Alpes " tied on to the hook of hers. There
is a dash of sentiment in it, and in her
bright blue eye. She will be intelligent,
communicative, and pleasant. Let us
take the empty seats by her. We have
spent a week studying what she has
plainly never seen before ; we may be of
equal benefit to each other, so we make
those silent, but unmistakable advances,
which she as silently meets. In a few
minutes we are off for the Hotel Byron.

" Is that the castle of Chillon ?" she
asks, not to us directly, but we are pre-
pared to answer.

" Oh no, that large pile of buildings
is nothing but a hotel."

" I thought it was an odd looking
prison," she said, laughing, but with a
slight color, which showed no fondness
for making even an unimportant blunder.

11 But there," we said, pointing apol-
ogetically for our superior local know-
ledge, to the small island of which Byron
makes mention in his " Prisoner of Chil-
lon," is

*«the little isle
Which in my very face did smile,
The only one in view. "

" Byron!" she said, as I finished, "Is
this in truth 'the little isle,' and hero
are 'the three tall trees,' how very
11

166

Lake Geneva, and its Associations.

[June,

funny." She bent her head far over
the side of the boat until the "moun-
tain breezes blew upon her" and her
cheeks caught their hue from "the young
flowers growing there."

I glanced down at the bunch of Alpine
roses on the stock which she still held
in her hands. Sentiment made the land-
scape for her. I had been right in my
conjecture. She turned her head con-
stantly toward the "little isle" until —

' ' There is the prison ! ' ' from her older
companion, made her look suddenly
around.

The prison ! Who would ever doubt
it was the one, when once in sight of it!
Standing upon an isolated rock, within
a stone's throw of the shore, the old,
gray, turretted tower seems like a por-
tion of the rock itself. All around it
runs the lake, dark, deep, turbid, while
a little narrow bridge with a curious old
draw connects it with the road. We
knew every window, every loop-hole.
We have picked green, living things
from its grown, hardened walls. We
pointed out the small opening through
which Bonnivard , after that long horrible
dream, saw " the little isle, smiling in
his face" in such bitter mockery. We
had put our hands within the iron ring
which confined him for those six long
years, and had paced slowly with meas-
ured steps the narrow path his feet had
worn in the solid rock. Our boatmoved
out of its white track, and going close
under the battlements, stopped one mo-
ment, so that we could have a nearer
view. The eager tourists crowded upon
the side nearest the prison, until the
boat bent its huge bulk with a visible
motion, that frightened the more timid
into an instant retreat, but numberless
lips that had been sealed before, were
repeating these words of Byron :

"Lake Leman lies by Chillon's walls:
A thousand feet in depth below,
Its massy waters meet and flow ;
Thus much the fathom-line was sent
From Chillon's snow-white battlement
Which round about the wave enthrals
± double dungeon, wall and wave
Have made — and like a living grave.

Below the surface of the lake

The dark vault lies wherein we lay,

We heard it ripple night and day. "

And there it was, rippling still, while
its waves sparkled, broke and died away
like the life of that poet, whom more
than Bonnivard, more than all the his-
toric associations of that grim old castle,
gives now to the tourist the life and soul
of these scenes. Poor Byron ! He never
was to us so real a person before, never
so human and so sad in his life and in his
death, as when sailing over this lake, we
found his genius had given to it so much
of its immortality. That very New Eng-
land minister (we know he is one) would
as soon put Voltaire into the hands of his
growing boy as Byron, and yet, in much
the same tone and manner in which he
would read one of Watt's divine hymns
from his pulpit, he repeats —
1 ' Chillon ! thy prison is a holy place,
And thy sad floor, an altar, for 'twas trod
Until his very steps have left a trace,
Worn, as if the cold pavement wei'e a sod,
By Bonnivard. May none those marks efface,
For they appeal from tyranny to God."

The minister drops both his hands on
the railing of the boat, as he finishes the
last line. This is his most impressive
gesture, used with great effect in that
white, wooden pulpit, more than four
thousand miles away.

And now comes Clarens ! Will our
sentimental young lady be as familiar
with Rousseau, as she was with Byron?
for Clarens was the spot designated by
Rousseau as the scene of the loves of
Heloise and Abelard.

" Nouvelle Heloise!" we say apolo-
getically, pointing to "Clarens! sweet
Clarens ! ' '

" Indeed," she answers in a dry, cold
tone, " It looks as if it were a very nice
place, the view of the Alps and of the
Rhone valley must be quite fine."

Rousseau was French, and therefore,
though no worse man than Byron, never
fitted for English ears ; but here are a
party of French, and listen ! they are
repeating the exquisite passages with
which the book abounds, with all the
love and reverent familiarity with which

1865.]

Lake Geneva, and its Associations.

167

a few minutes ago, we were reciting
Byron. Clarens is a Mecca for the sen-
timental, loving Parisian, and the bright
eyes and half-opened, rose-tipped lips
of that group of young French girls show
that Heloise ' ' is not dead but sleepeth. ' '

Here is Vevay ! Our boat runs con-
stantly along this town-built shore. It
is a pleasant arrangement, for it gives
the broad, Alp-bound, southern banks,
with the lake for its foreground. Ve-
vay, is a famous English residence. The
Pensions are good, and what is very im-
portant to the English, cheap. There is
a swarm of brown hats and flounced
dresses coming down the bank, to see
if they have any acquaintances on board.
How ruddy, and— may we be forgiven —
coarse they look, but what gentle, pleas-
ant voices they have ! See, the very
motion of those recognizing handker-
chiefs, is quiet, graceful and lady like,
if they were Americans (we shall have
to ask forgiveness again) they would
call i»4e»dy»b»id tones to their friends,
who would answer back as noisily.

Vevay has charming Alpine and lake
views; on no spot on the lake is the water
of a deeper, more celestial blue, but we
have no wish to land, we shall not stop
until we reach Lausanne, and now for a
good, fair view of the lake itself. We
mean its waters, so celebrated for this
peculiar color. One half the glowing
stories we have read, we freely confess,
until this moment, we have believed
fabulous.

This cerulean blue ! Is it a reality,
or an imagination ? Distance may lend
enchantment to the view. Go to the
bow of your boat, and look out there,
before you, to the spot where the sky
and the earth meet, or rather to the spot
where the sky seems to have fallen, and
to have spread itself out for your boat
to sail over. Look down where the
prow is just going to touch, blue as —
we pause for a comparison, it is the
Leavens, the deep, Boft, near, living
Italian heaven. There is nothing else
to liken it to, in all this beautiful, wide
world. There at the side of your boat,
where the waters have parted for your

path, lie little hills of blue green, an
artist's color. Raphael uses it, in the
shadows of his blue, mantled Madonnas;
we never saw it any where but there,
and here.

Go to the stern of the boat — pearl
white ! Now these waves dash up their
peerless sides for a moment, that the sun \
may borrow from them a ray of light,
which the}' themselves have stolen from
the pearl-lined depths below.

Well, it was not a fable. We might
look a life-time upon it, and we should
always find stealing over us, a new sense
of beauty, unimagined before.

We are in no haste for Lausanne, but
our captain is, for the steam is up, and
the steep rocky sides of the lake are
growing gradually flatter and flatter,
while vineyards, sweet sloping gardens,
pretty villas and clumps of trees, are
taking their places, and here are the
steepled banks of Lausanne. Lausanne !
It is only another name for Gibbon, for
Gibbon makes all the interest for us here,
as much as Rousseau at Clarens, and By-
ron at Chillon. Here , Gibbon spent many
years of his long and solitary life. Gib-
bon's house ! It is the first thing Eng-
lish or American travelers ask for, as
they pass by the town. A large hotel
occupies its site ; you see it, as you sail
by, and the very garden plot made
memorable by these words from his pen :
' ' It was on the day, or rather the night
of 1787 between the hours of eleven and
twelve that I wrote the last line, of the
last page [Decline and Fall of the Roman
Empire] in a summer house in my gar-
den. After laying down my pen I took
several turns in the berceau, or covered
walk of accacias, which commands a
prospect of the country, the lakes and
the mountains. The air was temperate,
the sky was serene, the silver orb of the
moon was reflected from the waves, all
nature was silent.' ' And Gibbon doubt-
less felt an intense sympathy with thia
silent rest of nature, a feeling that his
day was far spent, his work done, and
the night fast coming on.

It seems singular, that so far in our
sketch of the lake and its associations,

168

Lake Geneva, and its Associations.

[June,

all the celebrities connected with it should
be those whom the world has long since
stamped as being " without God and with-
out hope." It is hardly possible to ima-
gine how years can be spent amid such
scenery, and the heart never go up " from
nature to nature's God."

Glance from your boat, as it rests a mo-
ment at the wharf, upon the surrounding
scenery. The shore recedes on the oppo-
site side, and broad, high mountains seem
shutting you in both from heaven and
earth. Here, too, is that beautiful Rhone
valley, and if you can spare a look at it,
you will find the lake bluer than ever.

Our boat is again in motion, and the
tourists are rushing eagerly to that part
of the deck from which they are promised
their first view of Mt. Blanc. We pass
Morges, and there it is! We know it,
every one of us. See, how its snowy head
lifts itself like a monarch over all the sur-
rounding objects ! Shall we attempt to
describe it ? It was certain that we were
gazing upon it now, and that the sun was
glancing back from its great glittering
aiguilles, as if it was reflected from those
" pearly gates" which inclose the distant,
celestial city ; and there we stood, all si-
lent, not awe-struck, for it was only beau-
ty, not sublimity, which reached us from
those far-off peaks. The New England
minister was the first to speak. He said, so
that every one on deck could hear, "Which
by his strength setteth fast the mountains,
being girded with power." " Girded with
power." The words had a new, deeper
meaning to us then, and as we repeated
them over and over again, we thanked our
somewhat officious fellow-traveler.

On, now! with the sunlight glancing
back from Mt. Blanc ; from the transpa-
rent amethyst waves; from the valleys
and the hills — on to Coppet !

It is no wonder that here Madame de
Staei came when she grew weary of the
great noisy world. What a place to dream
of, and with, Corinne. The very air
grows still, as we slowly approach. There
is her house, with its two gray towers,
and there by that long, low window, that
seems almost hung out from the rest of
the house, is the room in which Madame

de Stael used to study and write. Some
one — it is our pretty, sentimental English
girl — whispers, "That there is still pre-
served in this room the inkstand and table
which she used in writing." There is
nothing of Corinne in this young ad-
mirer, but her capacity of loving, and that
subdued and softened look in her eyes,
that will dim as they recall the touching
scenes in the life and death of the poor
Italian girl. How impossible it is, to sep-
arate entirely the author from the printed
works. It was not the French minister
ISTeckar's daughter who lit up with such
intense sympathy the dim windows of the
gray old turrets; not the somewhat vain,
somewhat weak and foolish politician, but
the genius and the woman — the true wo-
man, more than all. There, in that chapel,
hidden almost by that clump of trees, she
lies buried, by the side of her scheming
and disappointed father, and you feel as
you gaze lovingly toward the spot, that
her grave covered a warm, throbbing hu-
man heart.

Our boat does not stop at Coppet this
morning, and we are nearing Geneva ; we
are leaving the towers and the trees, with
even the hills, behind, and now we stand
out for the middle of the lake, in order,
no doubt, that we may see the many beau-
tiful villas and country seats with which
both shores are covered. How the En-
glish wander every where ; here they are,
with such very English -looking houses.
You will know them by their excessive
neatness, and entire freedom from orna-
ment.

There, on the south shore, tall, stately,
but not poetical, excepting in its lake-
view, conspicuous from all the rest, stands
the Diodati. Byron once lived here, and
wrote while here, Manfred, and the third
canto of Childe Harold. Byron haunted
this lake, like a discontented soul, as he
really was, and his ghost, moaning and
groaning, " still walks."

These residences now begin to lose their
country look ; there are fewer gardens and
trees, and more brick and mortar. You
sec plainly that you are approaching Ge-
neva.

How deep, and blue, and still the lake

1865.]

Lake Geneva, and its Associations.

1G9

re ! Here it is rounded off, finding its vent
in the waters of the Rhone, which, hav-
ing passed quietly along through its bed,
now leaps like a caged chamois to its
freedom.

Here are other steamboats coming out,
and going in, and small sail-boats rock
beside us, or the rowers, in some gay-
painted craft, lie by a moment on their
oars while they gaze on our crowded deck
as if they expected to find it peopled with
friends.

How quickly our boat puffs its way up
amid a crowd of small craft to the
wharf. What a plac? ! Is it holiday in
Geneva that every o::e has turned out
to see our boat come in ; or have we
some unknown prince of the blood, on
board. No sooner do we touch the
quay, than such an elbowing, pushing,
crowding, loud talking and boisterous
gesticulation, takes place, that we have
much difficulty in believing, we are not
just entering New York, in one of our
river boats. It is very absurd. You
laugh and are angry, arc angry and
laugh again, for every piec? of your
luggage is seized by as many porters as
there are handles to the articles, and all
the time you read the name of the hotel
for which your are destined, printed in
great letters on a building not a stone
throw form you, "L'Ecude Geneve." It
might as well be ten miles off, as far as
your speedy prospect of reaching it is
concerned. Be patient, and bide your
time. Nowhere in the world do you
learn so well just what Longfellow
meant wh n he wrote, " learn to labor
and to wait," as you do in traveling in
Europe.

If you are wise, you will take your
seats, and appear not in the least haste ;
be sure if you do, you will be the first
attended to. And so, Ave called a porter
from the " L'Ecu," and watched with
interest the scene before us. It has
been too often described to bear repeti-
tion here ; suffice it to say, that in the
proce s of time, we found ourselves in
a delightful room at the " L'Ecu,"
looking directly upon the lake, in the
pleasantest of all places, where the

Rhone is dashing away to the green
country beyond.

This then, is the end of this far-
famed lake. No, not quite, for of all the
places on the lake, Geneva is the most
replete with interesting associations,
but our further notices must be extrem-
ely brief.

Voltaire chose this spot out from all
this world, to blight with his presence.
Only six miles away, his Ferney, and
every inch of ground between here and
there has been profaned by his foot-
steps. Here, within sight of all these
outspread glories of the Invisible, he
dared boldly and impiously, to deny his
existence, and spent the shafts of his
ill-omened wit, in hurling defiance at
Him, in whose hand these mountains
could be " taken up as a very little thing,
and removed into the sea." For nearly
twenty years he resided here, collect-
ing around him, all the intellectual bril-
liancy and power of Europe. The idol of
the great, the friend and companion of
kings and princes, boasting and bab-
ling, through years of undisguised infi-
delity, and blasting with that greatest
of all curses, the presence of a bad man,
these scenes of grandeur and beauty
upon which God had " set his seal."
Endeavoring to make Ferney another
Eden, but one where the serpent lurked
about undisguised, and where the tree
of knowledge, bore only the knowledge
of evil. We went to the Ferney, half
expecting to see the flaming sword,
waving over the gate ; but it did not
need it. Ruin and Desolation sat like
watchmen on either side. The mark
was " set upon the forehead," and you
wondered as you looked around, how
many Abels had fallen victims to this
one bold, bad man. Rousseau, John
Calvin and Voltaire, lived at one time in
Geneva ! What an assemblage ! and
what wonder that Voltaire and Rous-
seau should have united in opposing
and condemning John Calvin.

From amidst the close confinement of
his student life Calvin must have looked
upon these men, almost as beings of an-
other world. The genius-laden watch-

170

Lake Geneva, and its Associations.

[June,

maker's son, filled with wild, reckless,
dissolute impulses ; joyous in the joy of
God's world ; listening for the rustle
of every bird's wing that folded itself
softly above him, and searching out with
his quick, poet-eye the humblest flower
that closed its tiny leaf over its untold
beauties ; giving to nature the earnest
love of an earnest heart ; and receiving
from her in return, the power to paint
the human, all divine ; creating beings
too fair, too fond ; an iconoclast, whose
idols had less of earth than of the old,
classic, sensuous heaven ; embodiments
of Grecian beauty and Grecian spiritu-
ality. Upon such a man, what kind of in-
fluence could John Calvin have exerted.
Overpowering upon all the rest of Ge-
neva, it is no wonder that it should
have fallen unheeded here. Rousseau,
believed in no stern Being, who had
made such a world, and given ample
powers for enjoying it, and yet required
that strict seli-control which said to the
waves of human passion, " thus far, but
no farther:" while Calvin, pale and
exhausted from long vigils, and cease-
less prayer, wore out life's best ener-
gies in strict abstinence, and never-
ending austerities. Standing upon the
dividing line, where the gloom of mo-
nastic life was just begining to soften in
the twilight of the reformation, uncer-
tain whether the natural impulses were
from above or below ; melting at the
words of love, yet steeling his heart for
fear that they should be the voice of
the tempter ; drinking in with his own
deep, poet's soul, the " thoughts that
burned," as they fell from the pens
of the godless ones ; thriving with the
sense of beauty and love, and gentle
sadness, which stole into his heart
from the passion-burdened words of

Rousseau, and confessing in that meek
humility as a sin, which might be the
one never to be forgiven, that upon
those pages of Voltaire he had found
lessons of practical wisdom, and deep
truths of earthly love, whijh had left
their influence upon his stern, strong
mind forever.

As these three men lived then, they
live now, and when the light of this our
first night in Geneva faded away from
the still sky, and the still lake, we leaned
far out of our window, and though the
air is filled with the hum of busy, living
voices, there falls upon our ears, not the
wild ringing laugh of the poet Rousseau,
as he trills his love song, to the listen-
ing, loved one; not the sharp, keen witti-
cism, with which the old man Voltaire,
weary at last of a world that had long
since been weary of him, sought to bring
back again to his dull ear, the words of
adulation, not the mumbled curses of
God and man, which were the last sounds
lingering upon his pale and parching
lips, but a strong, earnest, manly voice,
reaches us through the soft hush of this
summer night, and we know it is John
Calvin, for the words uttered once "shook
the world."

And as we listen, the bright stars
come out one by one in the heaven above
and the heaven beneath us, and we
watch them as the ripples break over
their silent depths. A moment gone !
then there, bright and steady as before,
and we say to ourselves, so it may be
with these men, who once lived and
wrote here, obscured for a passing mo-
ment by a ripple in the great ocean of
time, but the light of their genius like
that of the stars will burn on undimin-
ished forever.

SPRING.
Once more thou comest, O delicious Spring !

And as thy light and gentle footsteps tread
Among earth's glories, desolate and dead,

Breathest revival over everything.

Thy genial spirit is abroad to bring

The cold and faded into life and bloom,
Emblem of that which shall unlock the
tomb,

And take away the fell destroyer's sting.

Therefore thou hast the warmer welcoming :
For Nature speaks not of herself alone,
But in her resurrection tells our own.

As from its grave comes forth the buried grain,
So man's frail body, in corruption sown,

In incorruption shall be raised again.

1865.]

The Choice of Companions in Youth.

171

THE CHOICE OF COMPANIONS IN YOUTH.

I found myself, the other day, recalling
to memory the companions of my youth,
and reflecting upon their success or their
failure. It has long been a maxim with
me, that if a man succeeds permanently
there is a good reason for it. He cither
possesses talent, or industry, or persever-
ance, or self-government, or sagacity, or
disinterested kindness, or some element or
elements of character that render him a
desirable associate to men of advanced
standing. So, if he fails, there i3 always
a good reason for this also. He may be
wanting in capacity, or more frequently
he is indolent, pleasure-loving, fitful and
selfish, governed by passion instead of
reason and conscience, or he has the un-
fortunate tendency always to stand in his
own light. A young man who desires to
fulfill his destiny must have in view some
elevated object in life, and he must reso-
lutely sacrifice every thing inconsistent
with the attainment of it. Let him do
this, in humble confidence on God, and
quietly bide his time. Providence will
take care of the rest.

A young man, however, with no bad
intentions, is liable to failure from causes
of which he does not distinctly see the re-
sults. Among these, one of the most se-
ductive and also most fatal is indiscretion
in the choice of companions. It is as
true now as ever it wras, that a man is
known by the company he keeps. Young
men are naturally diffident. They are
shy, and fear to associate with those whom
they believe to know more than them-
selves. Instead of assiduously cultivating
themselves, they keep out of the way,
until, after a few years, they have reason
to be ashamed of their ignorance. They
know also that good society imposes re-
straints, and they do not wish to be re-
strained. It has its understood rules of
behavior, and as they do not choose to
learn these by social intercourse, they
fear the reproach of awkwardness and ill-
breeding. Aware of their unfitness for
the society of intelligent and well-bred
men, they comfort themselves by ridicul-

ing usages which the common sense of
mankind has for real convenience every-
where established. Thus many young
men of respectable talent grow up as out-
siders, standing aloof from those who
would cheerfully receive them as com-
panions and friends ; from those, indeed,
whose friendship would be invaluable as
an introduction to an honorable position
in life.

But man is a social animal ; he must
have associates and intimates. This is
especially the case with the young. They
can not live in solitude. Having shut
themselves out from one class of associ-
ates, they naturally turn to another. They
are shy of those who know more than
themselves, and they instinctively seek
for those who know less. They do not
like to subject themselves to restraint, and
they choose society in which they will be
under no restraint whatever. They turn
from associates who would observe, ever
so kindly, any impropriety in conversa-
tion or behavior, and select associates
with whom they may do and talk just as
they please. Thus, before they are aware,
they find themselves intimate with none
but men in low life. Their conversation
is redolent of slang phrases. They are
familiar with nothing but the small talk
of the neighborhood, especially with that
which bears disparagingly upon men of
whom the community think well. If they
are fond of music, they sing abundantly,
but only among themselves, and their
songs are coarse and boisterous, with a
tendency to something worse. They think
little of propriety of dress, but choose to
be either slatterns or fops. If a young
man be lively and spirited, or, as is tech-
nically called, " a good fellow," he may
be occasionally profane or obscene, or
now and then intemperate, it only creates
the remark that A. B. is a little "tight."
Their meetings frequently droop and must
be enlivened by a game of cards ; the win-
ners must pay for a supper, which leads
to late hours, and is a preparation for
something worse. In short, this class of

172

The Choice of Companions in Youth.

[June,

young men form a society by themselves;
they establish a public opinion to which
they all submit, and this public opinion
always emanates from the lowest and most
sensual among them. Under these cir-
cumstances they easily slide from indiffer-
ent to bad, from bad to worse. One after
another becomes abandoned. If any es-
cape they find that while they have taken
one path, the young men of intelligence
and virtue have taken another ; and these
paths have greatly diverged. Dissociated
from all that is honorable and noble, they
have sense enough remaining to feel their
degradation. Without confidence in them-
selves, they are proud of a passing recog-
nition from men with whom they might
and ought to have been the equals and
associates.

I well remember a schoolmate of mine
at the acadenr)'. John P. was a boy of
respectable parents, of good but not
brillia: t talents. With steady applica-
tion he was capable of standing well in
his class, and at first he held a good rank
as a scholar. He was quiet and good-
tempere J , but shy, and seemed disposed
to keep by himself, at least he was not
fond of a sociating with those of his own
standing. We did not know what to
make of him, for he seemed to have
nothing in common with the rest of us.
By degrees, however, the mystery of his
conduct was explained. He had asso-
ciates and intimates, but they were com-
monly younger than himself, and boys
whose pursuits had nothing in common
with ours. He had imbibed a taste for
low society. His intimates were rude,
uneducated, and rather rowdy boys,
whose conversation could not by any
possibility call to mind any of the studies
in which he was engaged. To use a
eommon expression, they were " fellows
of no account," and they hung loosely
on the community. At times, though
so young, he was seen intoxicated. His
scholarship had become irregular, when
I left him to enter college.

He followed me in a year. His habits
had become fixed. He was less than
ever at home with intelligent and well-
bred young men. His fondness for

liquor had increased, ne rarely took a
walk for exercise without stopping at a
grocery before his return. His scholar-
ship declined as he advanced, and at
last he was continued in college by suffer-
ance rather than from merit. He was,
however, graduated, with a bias towards
intemperance deeply stamped upon him.
I frequently afterwards inquired about
him but could gain no information. A
star before his name on the triennial
catalogue, is now all the record that
remains of my old schoolmate, John P.

There is one source of this tendency
to low society to which I have never
seen an allusion. It is the love of horses.
Young men seem naturally fond of riding
and driving, they love to see an animal
in good condition. They wish to under-
stand horseflesh, its good and bad points,
its paces, its diseases, the ways of the
horse on the road and in the stable.
Their great ambition is to handle the
" ribbons " skillfully, to drive a fast but
somewhat dangerous horse, and to be
able to pass their brethren of a similar
taste upon the road.

Now, the persons who most abound
in this kind of knowledge and skill,
whose j dgments are, in their own opin-
ion, infallible in everything pertaining
to a horse, are ostlers, grooms, coach-
men and stage-drivers. They naturally
become the chosen companions of any
young person who is smit en with the
tendencies to which I have alluded.
Their whole talk is horses, and they are
well pleased to initiate our neophyte
into all the mysteries of the craft. Soon
there grows up an intimacy between
them and the young man who ought to
be the happy companion of parents,
brothers and sisters around the happy
fireside of home, finds his chosen place
of resort the stable, and his intimate
companions grooms and coachmen. He
can neither talk nor think of anything
but horses, and to him conversation isj
a blank that turns upon anything clse-^
The choicest portion of his life is thus
wasted in acquiring knowledge of no
po sible use to him; nay more, he is
shutting himself out of society that would

1865.]

The Choice of Companions in Youth.

173

improve him, and is forming intimacies
of which the tendency is inevitably
downward. He ignores the rank to
which Providence has assigned him, and
it will be well if he is able to take any
rank at all.

A striking illustration of this result is
seen in the history of the Dutch families
in the agricultural parts of the state of
New York. The original Dutch inhabi-
tants were a race remarkable for indus-
try, plainness, frugality, sound sense,
and strong attachment to religious ob-
servances. They, however, adhered to
their own language, and held the lan-
guage of the Yankees in contempt.
They thus shut themselves out from the
influences of an English education. Their
sons grew up in comparative ignorance,
and became universally enamored of
horse flesh. No young man had a higher
ambition than to possess the finest horse
in the reighborhood. Horse racing,
gambling and drinking rapidly followed,
and the Dutch families soon melted away.
The only record of their existence is in
the names of the towns which they set-
tled, and where they once lived in rural
and hospitable magnificence.

But it will be asked, are not grooms
and ostlers and coachmen as good as
anybody, and is not a man to be esteemed
not for his calling, but for what he act-
ually is ? Undoubtedly an honest and
useful calling is no disgrace, it is rather
an honor to any one . An ostler may be a
more respectable man than a millionaire,
and a millionaire may be a more respect-
able man than an ostler. A mean, sel-
fish, vulgar rich man deserves no more
respect than a mean, selfish, vulgar poor
man. If then we find good and bad men
in all the walks of life, why should we
confine ourselves to one class, and ex-
clude from our association all the others.
Let us treat them all as they deserve.
Because there are bad, mercenary, rich
merchants, as well as among grooms,
this is no reason for choosing grooms as
our chief associates.

But this is not all. Horses are valu-
able and it is important that those who
have the care of them should understand

horse flesh. They may well devote their
life to the pursuit of this knowledge.
But is this a reason why a young man
who is destined for other pursuits should
spend the best part of his life in acquir-
ing a skill which in a few years will bo
to him entirely valueless ?

Nor is this all. The position that a
young man shall hold in society depends
greatly on the impression which he makes
on the men who are now in active busi-
ness, and on their belief that he is one in
whose intelligence and virtue they may
safely confide. He who avoids their com-
pany, is the companion of grooms and
coachmen, and who is known to be capa-
ble of nothing but driving fast horses, at the
imminent risk of humble pedestrians, will
never be selected to occupy an important
situation. He falls out of his natural
line. No place is open for him, and he
passes through life complaining that every
one is against him.

Let every young man who wishes to
succeed in life, have an object in view, to
the accomplishment of which every effort
shall be directed. A miscellaneous life
leads only to incidental and miscellaneous
results. Having decided upon his object,
let him spend his youth in preparing him-
self to fulfill the duties of the place which
he desires to occupy.

Let him dismiss at once every habit and
every association that will in the least in-
terfere with this preparation. Let him
cultivate in advajice, that knowledge
which he will need when he comes to act.
Let him net suppose that knowledge will
come by magic whenever he wants it. It
will never come unless he has before ac-
quired it. A merchant who needs assist-
ance can not spend time to teach him, he
needs one who has alreaely taught himself.

Let him cultivate habits of industry.
Nothing valuable in this life is attainable
without labor. Why should he hope to
be an exception ? Let him not be seen
riding, loitering, stopping at the corners
of the streets to inquire the news. Pro-
ficiency in this line is no recommendation.

In choosing his associates let him se-
lect those who will improve him. If ho
is awkward, let him cultivate the ac-

174

Recollections of Sea Sights.

[June,

quaintance of well-bred people, from
whom he will learn the habits and usages
of good society. If he is ignorant let
him give himself to self-improvement,
and qualify himself for the society of in-
telligent men, instead of shutting him-
self out from their companionship.
Let him show himself worthy of re-

spect, and he will be respected, and
places of usefulness will soon stand
open before him. A man should main-
tain such a character that his services
are sought after, and then he will be
able to choose for himself his position
in life.

f-^e—

RECOLLECTIONS OP SEA SIGHTS.

As you stand on the deck of a steamer
upon a smooth sea, one of the most vivid
impressions of the scene is produced by
the wake you leave behind you. Y^hen
you sail upon a river, your track bends
with the windings of the stream ; or if it
be straight, the banks in the main, are
also straight, and your wake, in that case,
is only a narrow stripe of foam upon the
broader highway of the river. But out at
sea your track never bends ; and the only
line you see beside it is the great circle of
the horizon. Across this circle you are
drawing your line of foam — a long diame-
ter. There lies the sparkling path behind
you, growing fainter, indeed, as you look
along it ; yet it is easy to imagine that it
is only the distance that dims it ; and that
if one could walk on the sea he might fol-
low the highway over the waters through
daylight and darkness away to the port
he left a week before. And what a path-
way it would be ! No malachite can rival
the brightness and variety of its coloring.
At those frequent points where the bubbles
are buried just beneath the surface and
have not yet risen in foam, the sea takes the
most brilliant emerald hue. Beside these
are patches of water that have escaped
the general disturbance and so retain their
native deep green color; while great sheets
of snow-white foam shoot over this mottled
marble, and the whole soon blends into a
broad zone of pearl.

One who has not seen the phosphores-
cent light of the ocean under the paddle-
wheels of a steamer, has no idea of its
brilliancy and beauty. The whole mass
of water that has been disturbed by the

y wheels, glows with a mild silvery luster.
But in the midst of this luminous river
balls of vivid white light shoot backward,
so large and so many that they make up
nearly half the substance of the sea. You
are sailing over an inverted firmanent ;
but no firmament so teems with constella-
tions. Where the disturbed water rises
into foam you have a sheet of light, yet
not so brilliant but that the balls of white
fire, where they mount to the surface,
just show themselves by their greater
luster. The crested waves that radiate on
both sides from behind the paddle-wheels
wash over the black sea like waves of light
on a shore of darkness. Where these curl-
ing waves break, long plowing fingers
stretch themselves out over the dark sur-
face in a helpless grasp. Then the subsid-
ing surge rises again farther off into a nar-
row crest of light. But the black sea swal-
lows it and you leave behind you only
the sharp track of the bright boiling waters.

You get a different but very beautiful
path over the ocean, from the reflected
light of the sun or moon. The effect is
finest at night. There hangs the moon
in the southern sky, and a pavement of
silver ripples, shading off on both sides
through a network of narrowing lines
into the dark surface of the sea, prom-
ises to lead you from the very side of
your vessel to that brightest point where
the glittering track meets the horizon.

Sometimes the clouds pile themselves
up in black masses entirely hiding the
moon. But a distant break which you
can not see just suffers a far-off circum-
scribed silver glow to fall upon the inky

1865.]

Our Quartermaster : General Sheridan.

175

waters. The fissure opens, and the
glow reaches slowly towards you till it
lies upon the sea, a long line of trem-
bling light. By that time the moon her-
self is visible, facing the dark clouds
with a shining border and hanging the
mottled white and black of the heavens
over the arrowy line of light upon the
ocean.

But as fine effects of the moon and
clouds upon the sea may sometimes be
seen from the shore as from the deck of
a vessel. My sleeping-room in Genoa
was high up in the Hotel de Ville, an
old palace of broad marble halls and
staircases, and overlooked the harbor
with its forest of masts ; the mole with
its picturesque light-house ; and beyond
these, the broad Mediterranean. I woke
at midnight, and looking out of the
broad windows, saw the sky covered

with heavy clouds, broken by a few irreg-
ular openings which the full moon edged
into silver. The sea was in full sight
and was kindled at two or three differ-
ent points into brightness scarcely less
than that of day. All the rest was as
dark as midnight. As the wind bore
along the heavy clouds, those blight
disks swept over the roughened water ;
now the light fell on the light-house ;
now on the multitude of masts ; now it
shone full into my window, the round
moon hanging in the midst of the parted
clouds. Again, the broad pall covered
the whole, except that far, far away on
the black waters a single pencil of light
relieved the uniform darkness of the sea
and sky. I shall never forget that mid-
night view of contrasted lights and
shadows on the Gulf of Genoa.

OUR QUARTERMASTER : GENERAL SHERIDAN.

A modest, quiet little man was our
Quartermaster. Yet nobody could deny
the vitalizing energy and masterly force
of his presence, when he had occasion
to exert himself. Neat in person, cour-
teous in demeanor, exact in the transac-
tion of business, and most accurate in
all matters appertaining to the regula-
tions, orders, and general military cus-
tom, it was no wonder that our acting
chief Quartermaster should have been
universally liked. Especially was he in
favor socially, for it soon became known
that he was, off duty, a most genial com-
panion, answering the most mythical
requirement of that vaguest of compre-
hensive terms — " a good fellow."

We were assembling at Lebanon, Mis-
souri, in the months of November and
December, 1861, and, under the designa-
tion of the " Army of the Southwest,"
were about to inaugurate an active cam-
paign. It was a marked gathering. A
majority of those who used to gather at
head-quarters still aid to make glorious
the national history. The battle-fields

and victories of Keetsville, Pea Ridge,
Sugar Creek, Cross Hollows, and many
another conflict in that splendid march
through northern and central Arkansas,
have made the army of the Southwest
renowned.

The historic names which memory
recalls are many. They have since be-
come as ' ' familiar as household words."
Among these officers, and others as gal-
lant and gay, our Quartermaster Captain,
Phillip Henry Sheridan, made his bow
one fine day in December, when, in obe-
dience to orders from Major General Hal-
leck, he reported at Lebanon, for assign-
ment by Gen. Curtis to duty as chief
Quartermaster of the Army of the South-
west. Sheridan was quite unknown tc
fame, though nine and a half years of ar-
duous service in the regular army had
given him a title to a more brilliant field
than the one to which he was then assign-
ed. To Gen. Halleck is due the credit oi
earliest foreseeing and calling out the great
powers of Sheridan — qualities which make
his name a synonym for all that is daring

176

Our Quartermaster : General Sheridan.

[June,

in execution ; all that is superb in that
tremendous dash and elan by which
alone can a cavalry commander grandly
succeed ; all that is heroic in the power,
not only of holding on grimly when the
tide of battle ebbs and flows most doubt-
ingly, but also to see how "from the net-
tle danger, to pluck the flower safety."

What forms such a character is note-
worthy. Gen. Sheridan's experiences and
characteristics are eminently American,
and fitly and typically prelude his career.
Not often talking of himself, he yet told
enough to make one see how his char-
acter was crystallized. Every incident
will serve in making up the analysis, and
will indicate qualities, upon a general
view of which we arrive at a synthetical
estimate. Such lives as Sheridan's, his-
tory treasures as types, and embalms them
as examples.

General Sheridan is an American citi-
zen of Irish descent, as his name, and still
more, his face, will indicate. He is not
ashamed to own the "soft impeachment."
From the few life-experiences told by our
Quartermaster, we learned incidents of
his boyhood, and also of his professional
experiences. Of the latter he said "he
knew nothing else, but that he knew thor-
oughly." Sheridan's modesty was al-
most unconquerable.

He was born in Massachusetts, but
raised in Perry County, Ohio. His par-
ents were poor, and Phillip's opportuni-
ties of education were quite limited. At
an early age he began to earn his diurnal
allowance of buttered bread, and when ap-
pointed to West Point by the then member
of Congress, was engaged at Zanesville,
Ohio, in driving a water-cart, and supply-
ing the inhabitants with its contents. An
elder brother possessed some local politi-
cal influence, and Sheridan himself had
attracted the attention of the congress-
man. The result was that in 1848, Sher-
idan entered the Military Academy, being
at the time seventeen years old.

He remained until June, 1853, when he
graduated well, and received an appoint-
ment as brevet second lieutenant, in the
first U. S. Infantry, joining his company
at Fort Duncan, Texas, in the fall of the

same year. To the nation Sheridan owed
all his early opportunities. And nobly has
he repaid the debt. Unlike many another
recreant child of her munificence, he has
never faltered in devout allegiance to th«
country which endowed him with educa-
tion and profession, or failed to serve the
flag he had sworn to follow. From the time
of entrance into active service at the age
of twenty-two. Sheridan was actively and
laboriously engaged in the duties of his
position. Till after the rebellion broke
out, his life was spent in active service
against the hostile Indians, in command
of exploring parties, and at solitary posts
upon the frontier or distant Pacific territo-
ries.

Till the spring of 1855 he was actively
engaged against the Caraanches of Texas.
Then gazetted second lieutenant in the
Fourth Infantry, he was ordered to join
his regiment in Oregon, which he did.
On arrival he took command of an escort
for Lieut. Williamson's exploration of a
branch of the Pacific from Columbia river
to San Francisco. In the discharge of
this duty he was highly commended in
the report of Williamson, published by
Congress.

In September, 1855, at Vancouver, Wash-
ington territory, he accompanied Major
Rains, of the Fourth (since a rebel Major
General) on an expedition against the
Yokima Indians. For gallantry in an en-
gagement at the Cascades of Columbia,
April 28th, 1856, he was specially noted
in general orders. In May following he
took command of the Yokima Reserva-
tion, in the coast range of mountains. He
then selected a site for a military post in
the Seletz Valley. In the spring of '57 he
was complimented by General Scott for
meritorious conduct in the settlement of
difficulties with the Indians at Yokima
Bay. In the same year he built a post at
Yamhill, Washington territory. During
the following three years he was active-
ly engaged against Indians in the moun-
tain ranges. The fatigues and hardships
incidental to such a life have hardened him
until he is tough as a hickory sapling, and
hardy as a Northern pine. We have
heard him tell of living on grasshoppers

1865.]

Our Quartermaster : General Sheridan.

Ill

for days together — a light diet which
might fitly train a man for the long caval-
ry raids since characteristic of Sheridan's
operations. He once carried his provis-
ions for two weeks in a blanket rolled
across his shoulders.

Wheu the additional regiments were
authorized for the regular army, Sheri-
dan was promoted to a captaincy in the
loth. He was then ordered to join it at
Jefferson Barracks, Mo., which he did in
September, 1861. Soon after he was
placed on duty as president of the Board
to audit the claims growing out of Fre-
mont's administration in the west. Here
the order directing him to report to Gen.
Curtis found him.

We have said Captain Sheridan was
modest. In those days he was especially
so. Whenever he did allow his ambition
to appear, it appeared to be of a moderate
cast. " He was the sixty-fourth captain
on the list, and with the chances of war,
thought he might soon be major." Such
were the terms in which the future Major-
General spoke of promotion. No visions
of brilliant stars, single or dual, then
glimmered on the horizon of his life. If
he could pluck an old leaf and gild the
same for his shoulder's wear, he was satis-
fied. If any one had suggested the pos-
sibility of a brigadiership, our Quarter-
master would have supposed it meant in
irony. Yet he was even then recognized
as a man of vigorous character. The
judgment then given by a prominent staff
officer has since been verified by his bril-
liant career. It was, that Sheridan was
not great as a brain to plan, but tremen-
dous as an arm to execute.

None who knew Sheridan then can lay
claim to an understanding of his great
qualities. Those which won their esteem
were the genial and attractive ones, which
all remember with something akin to af-
fection. Especially is this true of the
subordinates who came into immediate
contact with our Quartermaster. The en-
listed men on duty at headquarters, or
in his own bureau, remember him kindly.
Not a clerk or orderly but treasures some
act of kindness done by Captain Sheridan.
Never forgetting, or allowing others to

forget, the respect due to him and his po-
sition, he was yet the most approachable
officer at headquarters. His knowledge
of the regulations and customs of the ar-
my, and of all professional minutice, were
ever at the disposal of any proper inqui-
rer. Private soldiers arc seldom allowed
to carry away as pleasant and kindly as-
sociations of a superior, as those with
which Captain Sheridan endowed us.
When the army was ready to move, he
gave his personal attention in seeing that
all attached to headquarters were proper-
ly equipped for service in the field, issuing
the necessary stores, animals, etc., with-
out difficulty or discussion. Many a man
received information about the prepara-
tion of papers, and other matters, which
has since been of invaluable assistance.
Nor was his kindness confined to subor-
dinates alone. It is easy for some men
to be genial and kind to those under them,
while it seems impossible to behave with
the proper courtesy due to those whoso
position entitles them to consideration as
gentlemen. We have served with a major-
general since then, who to his soldiei'3
was always forbearing, kindly and hu-
mane ; while to his officers, especially
those on the staff, he was almost invaria-
bly rude, rough, blunt and inconsiderate.
This could not be said of Sheridan. He had
that proper pride of military life, which
not alone demands, but accords, to all the
courtesy due among gentlemen. It is fair
to say that no man has risen more rapidly
with less jealousy; if the feelings enter-
tained by his old associates of the Army
of the Southwest are any criterion.

Sheridan's modesty amounted to bash-
fulness, especially in the presence of the
gentler sex. His life, having been passed
on the frontier, among Indians or at some
solitary post, it was not at all surprising
that our Quartermaster should hesitate
when urged to go where ladies might be
expected. If by chance he found himself
in such a gathering, he was sure to shrink
into an obscure corner and keep silent.
We remember an amusing incident of this
bashfulness.

He became attracted towards a young
lady at Springfield, where he was engaged

178

Oar Quartermaster : General Sheridan.

[June,

in forwarding supplies to the army. De-
sirous of showing her some attention, he
was altogether too modest to venture on
such a step. Finally he hit upon an ex-
pedient. He had a gay young clerk, Ed-
dy, in his office, whom he induced to take
the young lady out riding, while he (Sher-
idan) furnished the carriage and horses.
The modest little captain could often be
seen looking with pleasure on this arrange-
ment. Courting by proxy seemed to please
him as much (as it certainly was less
embarrassing) as if it had been done by
himself. There are but few men whose
modesty would carry them so far. What
the result was we never learnt. We think
it most probable Eddy carried off the prize.
The labors of Captain Sheridan as Quar-
termaster were very arduous ; in addition
to which he had the general superin-
tendence of the Subsistence department.
Everything needed organizing. Though
nine months of war had passed, few yet
realized the stupenduous character of the
struggle, or the magnitude of the prepara-
tions needed to meet it. Even our Quar-
termaster fell within the criticism of not
fully comprehending the wants of an army,
no larger than the one Gen. Curtis com-
manded. Yet what was done, and there
was a great deal of it, was thoroughly
done. His transportation and trains were
organized. Depots were established at
Rolla and Springlield, and a large amount
of supplies accumulated. While the army
was moving to Pea Ridge, it was mainly
supplied with stores obtained from the
surrounding country. In one respect, as
Quartermaster, Sheridan was a model.
He cut down the regimental trains to the
lowest margin then conceived possible,
and in so doing won the cordial opposition
of most regimental officers. Each regi-
ment had at the time a train larger than
that now apportioned by general orders
to a corps. The wagons were often of all
sizes and character, from the regulation
six-muler, to the lumbering farm-wagon
or spring-cart, pressed from the neighbor-
hood. Sheridan changed all this, and
compelled the turning over of all super-
fluous transportation for use in the general
army train.

Sheridan remained at Springfield until
after the battle of Pea Ridge, when he was
ordered, in consequence of a disagree-
ment with the commanding general to re-
port at St. Louis under arrest.

The circumstances were such, that,
while not derogatory to Gen. Curtis, they
did no injury to Sheridan. The severe
cold and exhaustive marches had reduced
our stock very much. It became necessa-
ry to replenish before a contemplated for-
ward movement, and Gen. Curtis sent or-
ders to Capt. Sheridan to gather up suita-
ble animals from the country, and, giving
the owners vouchers, forward them to the
army. At the time the order was issued,
the captain was excited about some depre-
dations reported as committed by a com-
pany of Illinois cavalry, to complaints of
which he did not consider sufficient atten-
tion had been paid. A letter was sent
from his office, rather indecorously allud-
ing to this in connection with the order,
and claiming that he was not a "jay haw-
ker." On this letter he was relieved, and
ordered to St. Louis. The necessities of
the campaign required Gen. Curtis to be
supplied ; the charity and kindness of
Capt. Sheridan made him regard it other-
wise ; as well as the fact that, he, like
many other officers of the regular army,
favored a policy of dealing gently with
the inhabitants of our "wayward sister"
states, which his subsequent experience
has effectually changed.

At this time Sheridan held the views
of the war, common to the majority of offi-
cers in the regular army. His professional
surroundings had not made him hostile to
slavery, to say the least. He was a Demo-
crat in a partizan sense, though not in the
true spirit of the term. To him anti-
slavery was more reprehensible than the
opposite, and if he had had the settlement
of the war then, it would have been among
the first of his movements, to order the
execution of an equal number of "north-
ern fanatics and southern fire-eaters," as
the phrase used to go in those days. War
waged for righteous ends and living veri-
ties, is always an educator. Men reason
swiftly when life and liberty hang in the
balance. As the scenes of a life-time

1805."!

Our Quartermaster : General Sheridan.

179

flash like a vivid panorama upon the mo-
mentary consciousness of a drowning or
falling man, so do the primal truths or
falsehoods of dogmas and convictions, be-
come apparent to the really earnest man
■who steps into the martial arena. We
wager the assertion that Sheridan's de-
mocracy is of a much truer type now,
than it was four years since. Not, let it
be understood, that he was marked or ob-
strusive in the expression of views, or
that in any way opinions were offensively
expressed. Still such was the impression
of his views left on an observer.

After returning to St. Louis Sheridan
was sent to Wisconsin to purchase horses.
That duty accomplished he was made
Chief Quartermaster of the army, under
Gen. Halleck, before Corinth. The wri-
ter met him here again and fouud him
grown to the full measure of his new and
greater responsibilities. Soon after, he
was placed at the head of a cavalry regi-
ment, the 2d Michigan, and the most
dashing cavalier yet found, fleshed his
" maiden" sabre, in the famous expedi-
tion under Col. Elliott, sent to destroy
the Mobile and Ohio railroad at Boone-
ville, Mississippi, thirty miles south of Co-
rinth. It will be remembered as a great
success, resulting in the capture and de-
struction of a large train, the tearing up
of the track, and the capture of two thou-
sand prisoners. Sheridan showed the
qualities wThich have since made him illus-
trious. He was foremost in all the daring
cavalry movements following immediate-
ly upon the evacuation of Corinth — move-
ments which for the first time showed the
superiority of our cavalry. In less than a
month Sheridan wTas in command of the
2d Brigade of the Cavalry Division of the
Army of the Mississippi, consisting of his
own regiment, and the 2d Iowa Cavalry.
This was on the 12th of June. On the 1st of
July he most gallantly wTon his brigadier's
star, within six weeks of the date of tak-
ing command of his regiment. He was
stationed at Booneville, twenty miles in
front of the main army. Here he was
attacked by nine regiments of cavalry un-
der Gen. Chalmers, numbering over five
thousand men. After considerable skir-

mishing, he fell back towards his camp, on
the edge of a swamp. Here he held them in
check, until he could select ninety of his
best men, and send them four miles to the
rear to make a simultaneous attack with
himself in front. The small detachment
appeared suddenly in the rear, impetuous-
ly attacked the rebels, who supposed them
to be an advance of a large force, and at
the same time Sheridan flung himself furi-
ously upon their front. The enemy were
utterly routed and, panic-stricken, lied
from the field. They ran for twenty
miles, strewing the route with clothing,
arms, and all kinds of equipments. This
is a brief condensation of notes made at
the time.

But to follow his career is not in the
scope of this writing. Our aim is only to
give the personal impressions left by
Sheridan on those with whom he came
in contact before fame had crowned his
name, and the gratitude of a redeemed na-
tion bound laurels for his brow.

In person, (at least in repose) General
Sheridan would not be called a handsome
man. Some one has called him an "em-
phatic human syllable." If so, nature's
compositor set him up in the black face,
broad letter, sometimes seen in "jobs"
and advertisements. It is "solid" at that.
Sheridan is barely five feet six inches in
height. His body is stout ; his lower
limbs rather short. He is what would be
called " stocky," in horse-jockey phraseol-
ogy. Deep and broad in the chest, com-
pact and firm in muscle, active and vigor-
ous in motion, there w7as not a pound of
superfluous flesh on his body, at the time
we write. His face and head showed his
Celtic origin. Head long, wrell balanced
in shape, and covered with a full crop
of close curling dark hair. His fore-
head moderately high, but quite broad,
perceptives well developed, high cheek
bones, dark beard, closely covering a
square lower jaw, and firm-lined mouth,
clear dark eyes, which were of a most
kindly character, completed the tout en-
semble memory gives at the call, Al-
ways neat in person, and generally dress-
ed in uniform, Captain Sheridan looked
as he was, a quiet, unassuming, but deter-

180

Short Sermons for Sunday-school Teachers.

[J taie.

mined officer and gentleman, whose mod-
esty would always have been a barrier to
great renown, had not the golden gates of
opportunity been unbarred for his pas-
sage. Almost the opposite of the Lieuten-
ant General in his intellectual traits, yet
like him in many social characteristics,
it would have been difficult for so great a
general to have found a more vigorous
subordinate, or a more dariug executive

of the stupendous plans he formea.
Pillip Henry Sheridan is now thirty- tour
years of a^e, and has won a reputation
second only to Grant himself, and to that
embodiment of nervous and intellectual
force, Major General Sherman. We have
not heard the last of our pugnacious and
pertinacious Quartermaster, whom may
the God of battles hold safe from harm.

SHORT SERMONS FOR SUNDAY-SCHOOL TEACHERS.

NUMBER II.

"And she called his name Moses: and
she said, because I drew him out of the wa-
ter."— Exodus ii. 10.

About four thousand years ago a little
boy was saved from drowning in the
Nile river. That incident forms the
theme of this present discourse.

"Life," says Jean Paul, " should in
every shape be precious to us ; for the
same reason that the Turks carefully
collect each scrap of paper which comes
in their way, because the name of God
maybe written upon it." If it were
not for this name of God, possible to be
written upon every human heart, I would
no more attempt to interest you in the
recital of that Hebrew babe's rescue,
than I would in the bursting of one of
the myriad bubbles which broke against
the side of the bulrush vessel he lay in.

Once, when our Saviour wanted to in-
struct his disciples in primary doctrine,
he took a little child, and set him in the
midst of them. If Pharaoh's daughter
will but lend to our imagination for an
hour the ark she discovered, we will
placo it here in full view, and make it
our preacher. Our lesson shall be con-
cerning the saving of children.

I. Let me, in the first place, recall to
your minds the perils which surrounded
the life which was saved on that memo-
rable occasion.

1 . It was the life of an infant child .
Strange indeed does it seem to think

that Moses, the venerable lawgiver of
the chosen people, once was a feeble
babe, weak and wailing as ever was a
nursling of three months in its mother's
arms. Yet this was he, lying there in
the reeds by the river-side. Look at
him a moment ! Surely, he needs not
to be killed in order to die. Infancy
alone will extinguish that insignificant
glimmer of existence. Just leave him
where he is a little longer, and you win
never hear of his going up into Moun\
Nebo. One rush of the waves through
a crevice, and the march in the wilder-
ness will never be made. One quick
gasp, as the relentless current hurries
him under, and the Bible will be less by
a Pentateuch.

2. It was the life of a proscribed child.
His nation was in bondage. His mother
was a slave. He was " one of the He-
brew's children." He became instantly,
therefore, an outlaw. All Egypt was
on the alert for his life. He was a tre-
mendous enemy of the government that
was building the pyramids ! There was
no room in the world for male Hebrew
children when Moses was born. Aaron,
his brother, got in before the door was
shut. Beautiful maidens were those,
doubtless, in attendance upon Egypt's
princess ; but between them and this
foundling, socially, there was forever-
more a great gulf fixed.

3. It was the life of an outcast child.

18G5.]

Short Sermons for Sunday-school Teachers.

181

He had no friends. His mother had al-
ready hidden him till concealment was
dangerous. It must have been a hard
tiling for her now to put him out on the
river. Sorrowful hours were those she
and little Miriam had. weaving tlie
rushes. But this was the best they
could do for him. Ho was as much
adrift on the world as he well could bo ;
and that at an age conceded to be un-
usually early. Feeble fight would he be
likely to make with the hard fortunes
that beset him.

You pity him : so do I, with all my
heart. But I will tell you what you may
pity to better purpose. There are scores
of sons and daughters of misery, drift-
ing out upon a stream of vice, which
the Nile with all its murkiness and its
monsters can not parallel for peril ; a
river of depraved humanity, hurrying
on before it every thing good and prom-
ising into the dark destiny behind the
cloud. I think it high time more was
doing in our Christian communities for
the rescue of children.

II. Let me tell you now, in the second
place, who it was that saved that life,
so exposed upon the margin of the Nile.

1. Primarily, of course, God. This
he has claimed for his especial office.
*' He gathereth together the outcasts of
Israel." Here was a child, orphaned
while his parents were living ; home-
less, when his father's house was within
sight,- deserted, when his own sister
kept her eye upon him,- an outlaw, when
the princess of the realm was coming to
his relief. Who put him in the midst
of such contradictions ? Who set all
the extraordinary train of helpers in mo-
tion? He it was, into whose faithful
face the Psalmist looked up as he said,
' ' When my father and my mother for-
sake me , then the Lord will take me up . "

2. Instrumentally, however, God made
use of four agents in this rescue. And
it is because all of us, in one way or
another, can find an example among
them to imitate in forwardness of zeal,
that I mention them in turn :

A believing mother was the first of them.
11 By faith, Moses when he was born was
Vol. I.

hid three months of his parents." Pru-
dence and piety were joined in the ef-
fort made for his relief. That trustful
woman religiously committed her child
to a covenant-keeping God. But she
did all that human ingenuity could sug-
gest to protect him. She used tho
means within her own reach. Then,
with unwavering confidence, she tran-
quilly awaited the issue.

A wealthy princess was also one of tho
helpers in the rescue. Pharaoh's daugh-
ter, coming down to the water, heard
the wailing voice among the rushes.
When her attendants brought the curi-
ous vessel ashore, she " saw tho child.''*
The great humanity asserted itself in
her breast. She felt the sincere st sym-
pathy for a creature so forlorn. It was
against the law, mind you, for her to
pity him. It was "resisting the powers"
to aid a little fugitive slave in those un-
civilized times. But through all the
meshes of conventional exclusion,
through all the links of legislation, her
womanly instinct found its unhindered
way. And in that exalted moment the
princess rose to an elevation she never
surpassed. She planted herself on the
rock by the side of the Creator, who
" hath made of one blood all nations of
men." No Christian woman, surely,
ever does herself and her sex the honor
that the merest self-respect requires,
until she is able to free her heart from
all trammels of social distinction and
caste privilege, enough to cheerfully do
good to any poor child of destitution
and prejudice, for whom the common
Redeemer has died.

An intelligent child was likewise ono
of the parties that saved Moses' life.
Quite a number of useful children are
mentioned in the Scripture. A little lad
furnished the loaves and fishes to feed
the five thousand. A little girl led tho
Syrian leper to Elisha for his cure. A
touching spectacle rises upon our imagi-
nation, when we think of the young
Miriam, perhaps at the time four or
five years old, put on guard just out of
sight to keep the family informed con-
cerning the fate of the ark. How the
12

182

Short Sermons for Sunday-school Teachers.

[June,

heart of that faithful watcher must have
fluttered, when she saw the royal train
approaching the spot I Miriam was un-
doubtedly a very bright child. She ap-
pears remarkably well in this stoiw.
There is ingenuity and great shrewdness
in her quick suggestion of a nurse — a
Hebrew nurse — and herself to go and make
choice of one. What is the reason
children may not be trained in saving
children? There is marvelous intelli-
gence in some of them, that might bo
turned to unmeasured advantage, if they
were taught usefulness, as patiently as
they are accomplishments.

An affectionate teacher was also among
the rescuers of that infant in the ark. To
be surcr this was the same woman men-
tioned before ; but she was now dis-
charging a different office. God's bless-
ing brought the child back to the bo-
som it belonged upon. But after this
Jochebed considered her charge as be-
longing to Pharaoh's daughter. He was
destined to enter the palace ere long.
She had it for her duty to prepare him
for his eminent mission. We read in
the subsequent history that Moses was
educated in all the learning of the Egyp-
tians. But it was the foundation of an-
other sort of knowledge that was laid
thus early in his career. This instruc-
tor taught him of God. of truth, of
equity. And I make a point of this
work of her's merely in order to say,
that the mother of any child is its fittest
teacher, when she can be, and when she
can not, that will be its best teacher who
is most like a mother.

You see now what was intended when
I said that you can choose your own
place among these instruments of res-
cue. There is a share in the saving of
children to be given to the youngest and
the maturest, for the pauper's child and
the king's daughter. Only this much I
urge earnestly ; the river is rising, time
hurries, the ark is exposed.

III. Let me tell you, in the third place,
what was the value of that life saved in
the ark of bulrushes.

Measured by any standard of earthly
estimate, it would not pass for much.

Indeed, why was it not better for an
outcast, like that infant Moses, just to
slip quietly out from under the cares of
life into the grand hereafter at once , and
die peacefully into a decenter existence
than this ? Such a question suggests
folly. Drowning is the poorest of all pur-
poses to put a child to. The rescue
proves the finest part of the story. One
thing is certain, it has been handed
down reverently through forty centu-
ries. The child was worth something,
or inspiration would not have been so
carefully invoked in its favor.

1. It was worth something for its
heauty. Stephen in the Acts says Moses
was "exceedingly fair;" the Greek is,
"fair to God/' or divinely, celestially
fair. There is in the countenance of a
child wonderful power to move any man
of sensibility. But the loveliness of in-
fancy becomes deformed very soon in
outcast children. It is a fearful sight
to look upon a little, old, wise child ; an
infant of years, with maturity thrust
upon him before his voice changes ; an
airyr shrewd politician of the streets
and alleys ; keen and cunning after food
and raiment as a wolf,, and worse off
than a wolf in that he has to procure
raiment. Believe me, even the artless
beauty of a child is worth saving. It
will be one of the dearest sights in heav-
en, the sweet faces of children. An-
gels are waiting to welcome it. They
never had any. They were never chil-
dren themselves. They are all of the
same age. They were all created at the
same time. They never marry nor are
given in marriage. Half the human race
die in infancy, and are saved. Oh, it is
best to keep something even here to
remind us of the joys of the redeemed I

2. It was worth something'' for its
gifts. At this time,, of course, Moses
was the merest infant. Nobody be-
lieves the foolish stories which the Rab-
bins tell of his early precocity, or his
boyish exploits. But we know from the
disclosure of after history, that there
were enfolded in his undeveloped intel-
lect princely possibilities of eminenee
in attainment and exercise. How little

1865.]

Short Sermons for Sunday -sclwol Teachers.

183

we know about this question of devel-
opment ! Look at your own hand ; it
is as good a hand as Michael Angelo's.
Why can not it paint on canvas, or carve
in stone ? It is untaught and unprac-
ticed ; but the skill is in it somewhere.
So of your memory. 9o of your imagi-
nation. How small a moiety of any
man's nature is working at its utmost
power. Look out now upon these
undisciplined multitudes. A shrewd
manufacturer, up among the mountains,
discovered a torrent that was wasting
itself in irregular leaps from rock to
rock ; he gave it a flume to run into, and
it rolled on far better for itself, and
turned a tremendous wheel for him.
Why does not some keen-sighted states-
man or philanthropist see how much
waste of power there is in this frantic
struggle for life, which the children of
want are making ?

3. It was worth something for its pre-
ciousness. When I look in upon the ark
where Moses lies, I can not help thinking
of the trustful woman that loved him
enough to give him up to the risk of the
waters. And I never stand before a great
audience of children without saying to my-
self, somebody loves them. Somebody
thinks that each one in turn is the best
one of them all. There never was a lit-
tle child, hardly, in the world that did not
have, for at least one moment, a look of
unutterable tenderness from the womdn
whose heart leaped up when she knew it
was her own. Just for common humani-
ty's sake, then, it is worth the saving. I
honor that matron who leaned over the
dying soldier and whispered, " Let me kiss
him for his mother!" But beyond this,
stands the great love of the Saviour for
children. "Take heed that ye despise
not one of these little ones." They are
unmeasurably precious to him. No crea-
ture in the universe, no matter how vi-
cious, no matter how deserted, no matter
how repulsive, is so far beyond the pale
of charity as to be rejected for an outcast,
just so long as there is room enough on his
forehead for grace to write the name of
the Lamb !

4. It was worth something for its pur-

pose. In every acorn there is an oak.
That feeble child, lying desolately in the
ark, was mightier than the BOH, rolling on
its meridian way overhead ; for the All-
wise had given him a work to do under
the plan of redemption. Jochebed little
knew what history she was weaving when
she plaited the bulrushes together. That
tiny hand was one day to wield the rod
of Omnipotence over the Red Sea divided,
the rock riven, and Amalek routed. Let
no man despise children. God sometimes
charges even the youngest life with a pur-
pose so transcendent that the angels earn-
estly desire to look into it.

5. It was worth something for its desti-
ny. You look at that child as it is borne
up the bank in the arms of its mother.
The narrative of the rescue is ended.
Pharaoh's daughter has a fresh adventure
to relate in the palace, to cause a wonder-
ment for a morning. Then the recollec-
tion grows dim, and that Life so strangely
saved seems to have vanished from histo-
ry. Forty years pass by; and anon it
reappears in the palace. There it is
tempted ; then it goes forth into desert
experiences, and is lost in the distance.
Forty more years pass by ; and again you
behold its return. A more splendid life
the world never saw. At the head of a
mighty host, its marvelous march has be-
gun towards the promised land. Miracles
drop from the extended hand. Wisdom
untold is issuing from the lips inspired.
Forty years more pass by ; and now at
last you see that life, with natural force
unabated, and eye not yet grown dim. go-
ing bravely up into Mount Nebo to die.
Then you have reason to believe it is fair-
ly ended. But fifteen hundred years more
pass by ; and once more you suddenly dis-
cover that life on the summit of another
mountain, in the companionship of Im-
manuel himself, grand in all the radiance
of glory, with Elijah and with God ! From
thatTabor-top of wonderful transfiguration
it passes back to its rest, to live and reign
forever. When you think of that rescued
child, think of all this immortal destiny
included. Even Miriam, who sang with
her timbrel by the Red Sea, is living yet ;
and on the sea of glass will yet sing with

184

Abraham Lincoln.

[June,

her harp the song of Moses and the Lamb.
This, then, is the lesson we learn to-day.
The salvation of a child — what is it ? It
seems so little, but, ah, it is so mfcch!
Let me give you just three thoughts to
close with.

1. Learn the power of the great com-
mon humanity. What Pharaoh's daugh-
ter needed was, not abuse, not long ex-
hortation, not tedious appeal, but to be
told what to do. When she "saw the
child," her heart spontaneously responded.
Rich people are all human ; most of them
are humane. There is no good in judging
them harshly. Tell them how.

2. Learn the best kind of monuments.
Egypt's king builded the pyramids.
Egypt's princess rescued Moses. The

pyramids are out in the sands, trying
mutely to perpetuate something, nobody
knows what. Moses lives on ! Who,
then, has the truest remembrance ?

3. Learn the greatest reason for thanks-
giving. Thank God that you had helpers
to save you when you were a child.
"Saved by grace!" Oh, what a motto
for a man's life! She called the infant
Moses, our text says, because she drew
him out of the water. Moses means
"saved." Think of a child called " saved"
for his given name ! Would it ever forget
its history ? Well, then, is that not your
name ? And are you going to remember
that you are redeemed by the precious
blood of Christ ?

• *4»«

ABRAHAM LINCOLN.

"The Union must and shall be pre-
served," said Andrew Jackson ; " Free
trade and sailors' rights," said Madison;
"Millions for defence, but not a cent
for tribute," was the stirring apothegm
of Randolph ; " We are all Federalists,
we are all Republicans," was the fa-
mous declaration of Thomas Jefferson.
AH these speeches have been greatly
admired, and regarded as unmistakable
evidences of greatness in those who ut-
tered them. They all roused the popu-
lar feeling, or, as the saying is, " fired
the national heart." We need not say,
how utterly hollow the fourth of them
proved to be. The first was undoubt-
edly made with all sincerity of feeling,
with all earnestness of purpose at the
time. General Jackson meant to pre-
serve the Union, doubtless ; his patriot-
ism was unquestioned, and yet we all
know how South Carolina triumphed in
that business. Clay compromised, Jack-
son was willing to have it so, and then
the rebellious State withdrew her ordi-
nance of nullification ; but it was not
until the Tariff had been destroyed to
please her. The Union was diplomatic-
ally preserved, but with a wound that

has made its later preservation cost
3000,000,000 dollars and 1,000,000 men.
Still it was a grand saying. It has be-
come a part of our national speech ; it
has brought great glory to him who made
it. It has been used to the reproach
of one who was supposed to fall behind
Jackson in spirit and energy. O, if we
only had at the helm the Hero of New
Orleans ! How often was this said in
the beginning, and almost to the close,
of our great conflict ! Friends of Lin-
coln sometimes said it as well as his
enemies: "Why don't the man talk
like Jackson?" The writer confesses
to his having had, at times, no small
share of the same feeling. Over and
over again, during these terrible years,
has he been tempted to say: 0 why is
he so slow ? Why does he not rise to
the greatness of the occasion ? Why all
this timid cautiousness, this looking be-
fore and after, this watching the symp-
toms of the times, and the spirit of the
nation, until that spirit is paralyzed and
destroyed? Why does he not "go
ahead?" Why does he not lead the
people, instead of seeming to lean upon
them, and all but imploring their sup-

1865.]

Abraham Lincoln,

185

port? Why could he not say, like An-
drew Jackson, " The Union, it must and
shall be preserved, " or something like
it to lire the national heart ? We read
of times when Mr. Lincoln was called
out, as the saying is. Some delegation
address him — it may be of foes or friends
—or some crowd gathers beneath his
windows. We are disappointed in his
oratory. He does not fire them. He
only argues with them in his homely*
Illinois style. His only object is to con-
vince. He seems to think, plain-trusting
soul, that he can surely place in other
minds the truth, so loved and clear, that
lies within his own ; and that that is all
which is needed. xVnd so he labors
with them by fact and argument, by an-
ecdote and reason. 0 what a time, we
say, to have made a speech — a taking
speech — to have played the Roman ! It
might have been done, too, with all sin-
cerity ; for sincerity is a very cheap and
shallow virtue, a mere surface efferves-
cence that may create itself by its own
words and imaginings, whilst far below
lies that calm spiritual truthfulness which
formed the deep basis of Mr. Lincoln's
character.

Again and again has there been in the
writer's mind this feeling of disappoint-
ment, only to be followed as often by the
same experience and the same confession
— Lincoln was right, after all. And then,
when the event has justified his words,
the thought has come up : what higher
than human wisdom, or any human he-
roism, is so steadily guiding and nerv-
ing this man to make his way through
wilds and thickets when the highest
earthly counsel could only say — Rush
madly on, and the very boldness of the
action, as it may possibly ruin all, so
may it, peradventure, ensure success.

That Abraham Lincoln could use lan-
guage well and most effectively, we want
no better evidence than his well-known

♦This word "homely" has often been ap-
plied to Mr. Lincoln's speeches. Taken right-
ly, it is just the thing. Homely is home-like.
They are of very different etymologies, but,
in some of its applications, homely is not far
from comely.

discussion with Mr. Douglas in 1857.
And yet he was not distinguished for
what is generally styled eloquence. Ho
must have some question of deep inter-
est to discuss. He must have somebody
(be it an audience large or small, or even
some single individual) to convince — to
make to feel, calmly, as he ever felt,
and to understand clearly as he ever un-
derstood. His truthful soul acknowledg-
ed no other aim of speech or eloquence
than such conviction, as true and clear,
and, therefore, as deep and lasting as
his own. All else was worthless ; all
else would be blown away by the next
ad captandum speech addressed to their
likings or their prejudices, their heroic
or their unheroic impulses, their higher
or their more vulgar emotions.

Mr. Lincoln could have talked like
Andrew Jackson. He could not have
been as lofty as Webster, or as polished
as Everett, but he could have spoken as
well as they to the national impulses.
Why did he not, then, have more to say
about the national flag and the soaring
eagle, about '• Liberty and Union one
and indivisible," and the "manifest
destiny" of the American people, and
' ' the Union must and shall be preserv-
ed," until he had lifted himself and his
hearers into greatness through our sheer
American love of saying or hearing
great things ? The simple answer is that
Mr. Lincoln was, in the truest sense,
too great to do this — at least in the try-
ing circumstances in which he was
placed. It might have done at other
times, but now all such acting must be
put away, for the veritable action, the
veritable drama, had come. The stern
reality was here. The greatness of Mr.
Lincoln's character — and every succeed-
ing age will bring it more to light— was
its unsullied truthfulness. He could not
say things merely "for effect." There
is no use in caviling about this term,
and saying, what is speech good for at
all, if it is not to produce some effect?
We well understand what is meant by
the phrase as thus used. Mr. Lincoln
could not do it. He could not well do
so at any time, much less in the awfullj

186

Abraham Lincoln.

[June,

searching ordeal through which he and
the nation were called to pass : the ship
upon a lee shore, the crew amazed or
treacherous, the billows breaking over
her in every direction, the storm thun-
der rolling above, and the " hell of wa-
ters" yawning below. There was but
one question, how to escape the

"ASrjv itovriov

the "abysmal Hades" of conspiracy of
secession and of anarchy, into which we
were plunging. It was no time for hero-
ics, no time we say, for acting, but for
action, patient, strong, unwearied. All
had been said that could be said. Work
and watching were the business of the
hour — the eye in every direction, the foot
phced firmly for every move, the hand
steady for every grasp, that might be re-
quired— words, not to be thrown away in
vain hurrahs, but reserved for that steady
counsel, that well adapted order which
the exigencies of each moment might de-
mand for the crew, and which any display
of the theatrical, at such a time, might,
lead them to neglect. No language was
to be used, that might, in any mind, sub-
stitute the ideal for the actual, or turn,
for an instant, away from truth and duty.
Abraham Lincoln was a most truthful
man, and this, we say again, was the es-
sential element of his greatness. We have
not chosen the word carelessly, as though
it denoted merely a good degree of some
quite ordinary quality. It is a rare thing
— quite rare, among men. Honesty is
common, sincerity is still more common,
almost universal we might say, but truth-
fulness, the pure harmony of the inward
and the outward man, is a thing not often
found on earth, and must, when it occurs,
be prized in Heaven. Lincoln has been
widely called honest. We would not dis-
parage the epithet. Could it rise again to
the ancient sense of the Latin honestas, it
might approach the idea we endeavor to
present in the other term ; but, as now
used, it means but very little. Sincerity
means still less. A great many men, it
may be said, are honest, but we are, almost
all of us, sincere — very sincere — in some
way. Men are, sometimes, most sincere

when most greatly wicked. Petty crimes
are consistent with a wanton hypocrisy
that seeks no veil, even from itself; but
seldom has there been a great crime com-
mitted on the earth without the parties
being, in some stages, very sincere, yea,
sometimes, very religious in it. Some-
thing of both these elements seem almost
necessary to what may be called a very
great or uncommon sin. We have read
history in vain not to see that the amount
of sincerity, and even of enthusiasm, that
men may have worked themselves into, is
often precisely the measure of the evil
that is in their hearts; and of the evil
they are committing. It is in proportion
to the absence of that other quality of
deep spiritual truthfulness that might have
kept them from the self-deception on
which such sincerity is grounded. Who
was ever more sincere than Robespierre ?
Who was ever more sincere than the fili-
buster Walker ? Who had more of this
quality than Jefferson Davis ? It is the
very presence of sincerity without truth-
fulness that made him, in all these re-
spects, the very opposite of Abraham Lin-
coln.

" Lord who shall abide in thy taberna-
cle; who shall dwell in thy holy hill?
He that hath clean hands and a pure
heart, he that walketh uprightly and
worketh righteousness, and speaketh the
truth in his heart:' Here we have the
character divinely limned in the xv th and
xxiv th Psalm. " That speaketh the truth
in his heart" — speaks it to himself — al-
lows of no lie even in his imagining or hia
thinking, suffers no shadow of self-decep-
tion to darken the light within his own
soul, has no ideal with which his actual
(though falling below it may well be) is
not in perfect serial harmony. O how
rare is this, and how sublime ! Much as
we may try to maintain outward truth in
our worldly relations, and easy as we may
think it thus to do — for what can be oasier,
one might say than to be honest, if a man
chooses to be it — still this character of be-
ing true to one's self amid all the falsities
that crowd into our inner as well as our out-
ward being — true in the spirit — " speaking
the truth in the heart" and to the heart —

18G5.]

Abraham Lincoln.

187

aXif Or.v&yy Iv aycix?]* "truthful in
love" — "truth in the inward parts," that
truth which God "desireth."f O this is
rare, very rare in the world, rare even in
the church. This guilelessness of the
spirit makes no show outwardly, for it is
a light that reflects itself within, hut it
shines far up in heaven, as one of the
rare and precious things of earth, even as
the Urim and Thummim, the " Light and
the Truth," that symbolize this state of
soul, sent up their clear lustre from the
breast-plate of Aaron as "he bore the judg-
ment of the children of Israel upon his
heart before the Lord continually."

If there can be such a thing as human
merit in the divine sight, it is this perfect
truthfulness of soul that loves the truth
whenever found, and yet seeks to ajrpear,
before God and man, no other than what
it really is. But we are not disposed to
magnify any mere human righteousness.
Nothing but that heavenly thing we call
grace could have produced such a char-
acter, as we conceive it to be, none the
less divine though so purely human in its
exercise and manifestation. And it icas
grace, we may believe, that formed so
true, so truthful, this unpretending, un-
professing man — grace working silently
in aid of a pious mother during his early
life of hardship and obedience — grace sup-
porting him in the trying circumstances
in which God had placed him for the
salvation of all that was most precious in
our American institutions. Mr. Lincoln
has been called a self-made man. We do
not like the phrase, but are willing to
concede that such he might be said to be
intellectually, or in respect to the acquisi-
tion of more outward knowledge. We
can hardly think it of this his higher spirit-
ual state, so true and so unearthly. And
here again the two men, before compared,
may be said to be in signal contrast. It
was rich outward culture that formed
Davis intellectually. Morally he was the
self-made man, the product of his own
unholy selfishness. It was nothing else
but his own dark ambition, connected
with an utter want of self-revealing truth-

* Ephesians iv. 15. f Psalm li, 6.

fulness, that gave him thati ntense sinceri-
ty in wrong — that wholly evil sincerity
which deluged a peaceful continent in
blood.

It has sometimes seemed to the writer
that among the surprises that will meet
the disrobed spirit in its first transition to
another sphere of life, the greatest of all
will be an overpowering feeling of reality,
such as it never experienced, however
honest and sincere it had aimed to be,
among the abounding, ever surrounding,
outward and inward falsities of the pres-
ent earthly existence. No concealment
now, no disguises, no deceiving others, no
hiding from one's self. The very concep-
tion has become an impossibility. All
things " stand naked and open" before the
burning eye of truth ; or as the Psalmist
says it, " Thou dost set our secret sins in
the light of thy countenance." All real;
everything appearing just as it is, whether
vile or holy, beautiful or deformed. Ma-
lignity there may be there, evils beyond
any present powers of conception, sins of
the spirit greater than any sins of the
flesh, surpassing any measure now found
on earth ; but lies forever banished. No
word or spiritual utterance can ever go
beyond the exact scale of its meaning,
either for the soul that hears, or the soul
that speaks it. No sentimentalisms, no
heroics, no talking "for effect" that does
not immediately betray its unmeaningness
or its falsehood — it maybe to the startling
surprise even of him that gives it utterance.
No more putting evil for good, or dark-
ness for light. No more confounding the
love of opinions with the love of truth.
No more misapprehending that oft times
intensest form of selfishness, a furious plat-
form zeal, for true philanthrophy. No
more mistaking our words for our thoughts,
our thinking for our becoming, our imag-
inings for our very being. No more put-
ting an abstract ideal we have admired
for the low actual we have chosen. No
more cheating ourselves by substituting
specious reason* for vile motives — the
justifying pleas of the intellect, that are
ever at hand, for the real moving powers
of sense and selfishness that have reigned
in our hearts. All this has ceased forever.

188

Abraham Lincoln.

[June,

All deception, whether of ourselves or
others, has become a simple impossibility.
The shadows are gone, truth has come. In
such a spiritual atmosphere the best of
men we have known on earth may experi-
ence an unwonted chill, a strange awe of
the real and the true, they have never so
felt before. Our lamented President has
gone to that land of reality. We would
speak cautiously and reverently here.
Doubtless hath he learned more of him-
self than he ever knew before. Doubtless
in the presence of that higher law hath
he seen more of his own deficiencies than
his humble spirit, though always so truth-
fully acknowledging them, ever saw on
earth. Still would we express the belief
that in the throng of souls that are ever
passing from this world of falshood, few
there are, even of the professedly religious,
that will find themselves more in harmony
with that unclouded sphere, more serene-
ly at rest in that " divine tabernacle," that
"holy hill" of truth, than the loved shade
for whose departure we have all so lately
and so deeply mourned. ' ' Bl essed are the
meek. Blessed are the merciful, for they
shall obtain mercy. Blessed are the pure
in heart for they shall see God."

But this may seem like trespassing on
thing3 too holy. Let us return to Abra-
ham Lincoln's earthly life, to that earth-
ly truthfulness of speech and character
on which wc love to dwell. He would
not, or he could not, say things for mere
effect, however much the foe may have
sneered at him for his supposed incom-
petency, or the friend have lamented
that he did not popularize his influence
by playing the sage or the hero. We
could have wished him more, in some
respects, like Jefferson and Jackson; but
he was neither, and it was a part of his
substantial greatness that he would nev-
er appear, or wish to appear, that which
he was not. Nothing, however, could
be more false than to deny him the power
of truly effective speaking. How well
he could retort when the right occasion
arose^ and pure truth demanded it, is
well known. The men who undertook
to lecture him about Vallandigham's ar-
rest will not forget, or, if they arc ob-

tuse enough to do so, the nation will
long remember, how perfect the reply,
how keen the sarcasm — we would call
it if its perfect truthfulness, which was
its power, did not demand a higher and
purer epithet.

It must be confessed, however, that
there were times when he was not hap-
py in this business of public speaking.
It was rather coarsely said by one who
had not been a political friend, that
"to save his life Mr. Lincoln could
never make a good impromptu speech."
There was some truth in this. At times
when there was really little to be said
— on mere occasions of political cere-
mony, or of party etiquette — he really
made very poor work in expressing
himself. Mr. Lincoln could not talk to
nothing, or about nothing. It is aston-
ishing what a gift, or rather what a
knack, some men have for this sort of
thing ; how glibly they can talk and
write, how many words they can use —
all pretty fair, grammatical English, too
— and yet. mean nothing — actually say
nothing. The " inexpressibility of their
feelings," the ''purity of their mo-
tives"— this is ever the rondo with va-
riations, carried through every key of
the musical scale. Mr. Lincoln could
not do this ; he had little or nothing
to say of the purity of his motives,
and seldom alluded at all to his in-
ward feelings. We remember but one
occasion of his ever indulging in such a
course, but that was memorable for the
de3p evidence it presented of truth and
heartiness. A crowd had gathered to
congratulate him on his re-election. He
did not, as he could not, suppress the
pure gratification which that event af-
forded; but another thing was strug-
gling in his thoughts, and he must give
it utterance. It was the remembrance
of his competitor — of the man who had
bravely striven with him against the
common foe, and who had as earnestly
striven against him in the political con-
test. He thought of his defeat, and the
chafing soreness it must occasion to an
ardent and sensitive spirit. It seems to
have saddened him that his own success

1865.]

Abraliam Lincoln.

189

should havo been obtained at such a
price. " If I know my own heart," says
this great, humble man, " it gives me
no pleasure to triumph over anybody."
No one, whether friend or foe, ever
doubted the deep, hearty feeling that
prompted the declaration. It was not
the words merely, but the fact of their
being in such perfect harmony with the
entire character of the man, that pro-
duced the universal conviction.

Still was it true that Mr. Lincoln could
not speak well on mere occasions of
ceremony and congratulation. As has
been justly said, "he must be argumen-
tative or nothing. ' ' He must have some-
thing to prove, and somebody to con-
vince. He could gather the men of the
prairies, and hold them for long hours
as he discussed in his Socratic way, half
speech, half dialogue, the vital theme
of slavery extension. But he could not
talk well from a hurried railway plat-
form ; and this thought furnishes the
reason why his speeches on his journey
from Springfield to Washington, in the
winter of 1861, were the poorest he
ever made. There were, in fact, two
reasons for this, operating together here,
though they may seem to stand in para-
doxical opposition to each other. The
occasions that called for this train-plat-
form oratory were too trifling in them-
selves, and they were, at the same time,
connected with ideas too serious for any
mere rhetorical utterance. Too trifling,
because they demanded the s'howman
rather than the orator, too important,
for it was a time when the truest and
bravest hearts were failing, and the
wisest among us were "wondering
whereun.to these strange things would
tend." But why not, then, arouse and
"fire the popular heart?" Why was
he not inspired by the occasion ? Alas,
it might have been a false inspiration,
and Mr. Lincoln dreaded, more than all
things else, any imposing on himself or
others. He would rather be humbly
true than heroically false. He preferred
the homeliest speech to any splendid
unreality of diction, even though the
offspring of that momentary fervor we
call sincerity. He could talk to effect

when a true effect was evidently to be
the result of what he said. But he must
see his way clear before him. To do
this, in the circumstanc.es in which our
country was then placed, required a
superhuman knowledge which (it is no
disparagement to say it) neither he, nor
any other man, at that time, possessed.
But why could he not speak to them of
the great things he was going to do ?
Why not, at least, say, " The Union, it
must and shall be preserved?" Alas,
he knew not what to do, except to take
his solemn oath, towards which he was
journeying, and try and keep it, God so
helping him. He knew not that " the
Union would be preserved," as none of
us, at that time knew. He was wiser
than the masses, in that he was looking
to see how and when the light would
break. He was for praying, and asking
the prayers of others, as he told his
plain Springfield neighbors in that last
short and touching speech he made to
them. Then he spoke to effect, in the
purest sense of the phrase, for he said
the only thing that could have been said,
or ought to have been said : ' ' Pray for
me my neighbors, — 0 pray for me in
bearing this heavy burden, greater than
has been laid on any single man since
the days of Washington."

Mr. Lincoln could only appear what
he truly was — no more, no less, either
to himself or others. This was one of
the fixed things of his character, which
he cou d not change. To speak with
confidence of what was all unknown
was, to him, equivalent to falsehood.
He could not boast in the presence of
the coming storm ; he had too clear a
prescience of its magnitude, if not of its
result. He could not talk grandiloquent-
ly in the rumblings of the threatening
earthquake. To stand and listen — that
was the true heroic attitude. To "be
still and know that God" was passing
by — to watch the signs of his presence,
the tokens of his frown or favor — " that
was wisdom ;" to " depart," at such a
time, from all boasting speech, from all
"vain imaginations" — " that was un-
derstanding."

" Pray for me" — never was a request

190

Abraham Lincoln.

[June,

more heartily made. Ora pi'o nobis —
seldom has the invocation, whether
made to saints in heaven, or saints on
earth, gone forth from a truer sense of
its wisdom and its need. This was what
he said continually to the clergymen
who called upon him. No cant, no pa-
tronizing statesmanlike talk about " our
holy religion," and the great value of
Christianity to the State ; no high pro-
fession, no condescension, none of that
accommodation to religious feeling
which so often betrays its hollowness in
high places. No one can deny to Mr.
Lincoln a sharp sagacity. He knew the
great influence of the clergy. He must
have felt how much they deserved to
possess that influence from the noble
stand they had taken, and the strong aid
they were giving to the government in
its hour of need. He had every motive
to gain their favor, and to talk very or-
thodoxly, and very evangelically, if that
would secure it. His answers were
sometimes even blunt. He never court-
ed them, though ever treating them
courteously. The Secretary of State
had much more of this in his communi-
cations to addresses of religious bodies ;
and of his true and hearty feeling there-
in we have no doubt; but the President
had ever for them this one speech —
11 Pray for me." " Mr. Lincoln, do you
pray for yourself?" said one. " BLw
should I do without prayer ?" was the
only reply. It was no merit that he
shoull pray, no religious excellence to
be talked about, or retailed in the news-
papers. It was a necessity that was
laid upon him. As Paul claimed no
merit — " Woe to him if ho preached
not the Gospel," — even so, as we may
say it without any irreverent compari-
son, was it with Mr. Lincoln. Pray he
must ; and so he felt it, and so he doubt-
less practiced during the many anxious
days and watching nights whilst the
nation's burden was pressing so heavy
upon his soul. He knew that he must
sink if he did not pray ; and shall it be
deemed extravagant to behove that that
relief was often given. How else could
he have borne it unless the voice had

sometimes come to his heart, if not to
his ear of sense : " Fear not, for I am
with thee ; I hold thee by thy hand ; ' '
" let not your heart be troubled, neither
let it be afraid." We would not exag-
gerate here, but have we not reason to
believe that all this is warranted by the
fact on which we are dwelling — his ear-
nest, oft-repeated request to "pray for
him."

The speech at Springfield was a most
affecting one, but his utterances on the
momentous journey referred to were not
happy. The popular demand was like
that made upon the saddened captives
" by the rivers of Babjdon." How could
they ' ' sing the songs of Zion in a strange
land?" Come make us a speech, said
the thronging multitudes, as the train
passed rapidly through our towns and
cities ; come sing us a song of the prai-
ries, come tell us a story. He could
have done this in some genial society
of his Western home, even as he could
do it occasionally when there came a
brief relaxation from the stern cares of
that " great office wherein he bore him-
self so meekly. ' ' At such times he could
tell "his little story" — "the words
come to mind tend.rly now" — but in
this momentous journey he coull havo
no heart for it. They asked entertain-
ment, excitement, a wordy oratory, yea,
"the spoilers required mirth" of thia
anxious, praying, deeply burdened man.
He could not give it them, or if he at-
tempted it, it was poorly done, and un-
der great embarrassment. How could
he talk to effect at such a time, without
saying something false, or, what is equi-
valent to the same thing, that which he
could not feel that he was tru'y warrant-
ed in saying in the terrible darkness that
then- enveloped himself and the nation.
He could have said, " The Union must
and shall be preserved," and the crowd
would have doubtless shouted, and that
would have been very cheering ; but he
knew how very common had been such
shoutings in our history, and in other
history, and what came of them. He
well kn.w this, even without that later
experience which showed him how easi-

1865.]

Abraham Lincoln.

191

ly the bold bravura, " the nation to bo
preserved at all hazards," might dwin-
dle down into the squeaking-falsetto,
" the constitution as it is," with all the
lying sophisms that formed its mean
accompaniment. Again, the vaunted
speech, or any thing like it, would have
been, either a lie, or an expression of
undoubted confidence in his own pow-
ers, and that the truthful man could not
bring himself to utter. His hope was
not in himself, not in his party, not in
the people — it was alone in God.

In our strange human nature the pa-
thetic and the sublime are, sometimes, not
far removed from the light and the hu-
morous. There may be a deeply solemn
6ide to that, which, at first view, seems
only fitted to provoke indignation or a
smile. During the late Presidential cam-
paign there met the writer's eye, what
seemed to be one of the caricature pictures
of the occasion. It represented a tall,
stooping man, with a heavy burden upon
his back, and carefully picking his way
upon a rope drawn across the boiling Ni-
agara. It was a comparison of Mr. Lin-
coln to Blondin when he carried his freight
of a human life along that perilous pas-
sage. Indignation was the first feeling
at an association of ideas that seemed de-
grading. An enemy hath done this, we
said. A closer examination, however,
showed that that was not so certain. At
all events, there soon arose a new feel-
ing that dispelled all thought of the light
and the ludicrous. Only change the ideal,
and no representation, by word or paint-
ing, could so picture the thought of vast
and perilous responsibility. The freight
thus carried by this stooping figure was
a nation's life. Across the yawning abyss
of anarchy was it to be steadily borne. Be-
neath was the awful gulf into which one
false step, one moment of faintness, one
nervous tremor, one rash advance, or
one timid stepping back, would have in-
evitably plunged the priceless cargo. No
wanton display this, no fool-hardy device
to draw together a brutal crowd. Every
thought of that kind disappears at once
from the spirituel of the picture. It was
a dire necessity that forced this lonely

man across the fearful passage. The bur-
den was one he could not lay down.
There was no other road but this, the un-
tried way, that no American before him
had been ever called to travel. One bank
had been left, and the other must bo
reached, or all was lost. No mere specu-
lative wisdom, no mere political theorizing,
could stand him now in stead. He must
look away from this and go sounding on

His dim and perilous way,

by other guidance, and by other strength.
An undiverted eye, a steady hand, a firm
and cautious foot, a nerve that never
trembled, a strength that never gave up
to weariness — these were the practical
qualities required. Distrust of self, and
yet an unwavering trust in a higher prom-
ised wisdom, these were the moral requi-
sites which the dangerous hour demanded.
Faith in God, a steady looking to the
right and the reasons of it, these for the
time, superseded those other intellectual
needs that some would call higher, but
which the wants of the occasion placed
far below. " Watch and pray " — these
were to Mr. Lincoln his all of political wis-
dom, his all of intellectual statesmanship,
at that time, either available or of value.
It was the greatness of his character and
of his wisdom that made him see this, and
.enabled him to resist the temptation of
being great, or of seeming great, in some
other way. And was it little ? Who will
say so that has any sense of the difficulty
that lay in crossing at this dangerous
point of our history — or in carrying the
nation and the constitution, safe from
shore to shore along this narrow way.

Who can estimate the steadiness and
strength ol soul required for such a per-
formance. " Go on — go on — move faster,
or you will fa.l," said the clamoring
multitude on one side. " Back — back —
not another step in that direction," was
ever shouted from another quarter. But
nothing could either turn or hurry him.
To have lost sight, for one moment, of
his pressing responsibility, to have giv-
en way to any factitious feeling, to have
made boasts that he could not have been
certain of performing, to have indulged

192

Abraham Lincolm

[June,

in any heroics that would not be in
strictest harmony with the awful reality
— might have brought on the dreadful
catastrophe ; they certainly could, at
that time, have had no influence in pre-
venting it, if it came from any other
failure. Mr. Lincoln would not do these
heroic things. Some might say that he
could not — that he had not the talent for
them. This is assuming much for those
who know how poor, in general, are
such displays, and how little, either of
talent or of genius, they require. But,
granting such incapacity of speech and
daring, it does not injuriously affect our
view of the substantial greatness we are
contemplating. It may even be all the
greater for the lack. It did, indeed,
most sorely try our patience. Oh, how
slow he moved sometimes, or seemed
to move, as every eye wa3 strained in
watching from either shore ! With what
caution did he place the lever by which
he had his balance, now on this side,
and now on that ; how carefully poised
was every step, how firmly held when
taken! Had he obeyed the opposite
voices that ever shouted in his ea;s —
" rash man " — {i time-serving man " —
and stayed his step, or rushed madly
ahead ; or, had he given up in bewil-
dered and despairing helplessness, how
terribl; the fall! — we see it now — how
dire the wreck that might have ensued,
and, in all probability, would have en-
sued, from one false move at such a
time, and with such a precious freight
as the people in their party caprice, per-
haps, but God in his all-seeing wisdom,
had placed upon him.

And so for the four long years of peril
and anxiety. How, at times we held
our breath at the contemplation of the
scene — the awful dangers of the way,
the ever-swinging rope, the alternations
of success and fear, that heavy load,
that stooping form, that fearful uncer-
tainty. There is no danger of over-
stating it. There are times when we are
fond of [roasting, and may, indeed, boast
with much justice, that the nation's des-
tiny is not dependent on any one man's
firmness, or any one man's wisdom. But

that boast could not have been made
two years ago. Whatever the causes
that produced so strange a state of
things, the national life seemed commit-
ted to one man's watching soul, its heavy
burden seemed laid on one man's wea-
ried back ; there were others to help, to
cheer and counsel him, and yet it may
be said that all depended upon his firm-
ness, his wisdom, and his fidelity. To
go back to our figure, on which we have
dwelt, and for which we hope the read-
er will pardon us — one misdirected sign,
one wrong movement to the right or left,
one step too fast or slow, too timid
or too rash, might have been a national
ruin as inevitable as any plunge into the
boiling eddies of the Niagara.

But the long time of agony drew near
to its close ; the other shore is reached ;
the precious freight of life is saved.
The multitudes are crowding to offer
their congratulations to the man whose
strength and steadiness had gone
through this awful trial. Who had a
better right to triumph ? But so it waa
not to be. More favored, in one respect,
than Moses, he had reached the expect-
ed land, but it was only to die, almost
as soon as he had placed his foot upon
its shore. We will not speak of th@
manner of his death ; but when — to use
the touching language of Mr. Garrison —
"when was man so mourned?" That
"rain of tears" — was there ever any-
thing like it in our American history ?
Millions crowded to his funeral. Five
hundred thousand, it is estimated, gazed
upon that dead face, as onward, by day
and night, the sad procession moved
through the cities, towns, and hamlets
of our land. The writer witnessed it at
an inland station, where no outward
show of preparation could be made.
Still there, as elsewhere, while the dark
draped car moved slowly through, was
there the manifestation of the same sub-
stantial sorrow — the silent crowd, the
spontaneously uncovered head, while
drops were stealing down the manly
cheek, and muffled sobs betrayed the
female grief. All hearts were softened,
all malice silenced, all party spirit

1865.]

'Tis Hard to Die in Spring -Thru

191

hushed. The spiritual preciousucss of
that season, its moral value to the na-
tion, who shall estimate ? Some faint
cavil has been heard that Bishop Potter
should have called Mr. Lincoln a mar-
tyr. But surely he was such in both the
senses of the term. He died in defence
of righteousness ; his death, though so
deeply mourned as a loss, has had a
healing moral influence as striking as
any physical cure that truth or legend
has ascribed to the graves of martyred
saints.

We can not charge our language with
extravagance. Surely is there some special
lesson that God has intended to teach us
by this life and death, and without irrever-
ence may it be said, we think that it is not
difficult to find it out. We have had great
men, so called, of many kinds, great states-
men, great orators, philosophic Presidents
and military ones, all famed for greatness
in our glowing eulogies. We boast of
acute publicists, talented editors, wise
diplomatists, and learned lawyers. We
have called ourselves a great aud wiie
people. There has been no measure to
our self-laudation. We have been offen-
sive, in this respect, to the other nations

of the earth. At last God sends dira
calamities upon us, or he suffers us to
bring them upon ourselves; but in the
midst of them he prepares for us a re-
markable man — a model, too, of greatness,
but of a different kind from that in which
we had taken so much offensive pride. It
is a moral, rather than a heroic and an
intellectual greatness ; though the two
latter kinds are by no means wanting.
He who was thus raised up was some-
thing more than sincere and honest. He
was that rare character, a most truthful
man, in all its rare sublimity. He was
purely an American, and yet without the
least tincture of our conntry's greatest
fault. He well performed the work that
was given him to do " in his great office,"
and then departed to his rest. He is our
model man. This is the heroism we are
called to admire as especially becoming
us in view of our idols of the past. Let
us receive our chastisement, let us learn
the lesson, let us revere the memory of
this meek greatness ; let us reform from
our besettting national sin; let us hereafter
put away all boasting, with its inseparable
attendants, oppression and wrong, from
our future American history.

TIS HARD TO DIE IN SPRING-TIME.

Tis hard to die in Spring-time,

When, to mock my bitter need,
All life around runs over

In its fullness without heed :

New life for tiniest twig or tree,

New worlds of honey for the bee,

And not one drop of dew for me

Who perish as I plead.

Tis hard to die in Spring-time,
When it stirs the poorest clod ;

The wee Wren lifts it little hear*
In lusty songs to God ;

And summer comes with conquering march;

Her banners waving 'neath the arch

Of heaven, where I lie and parch —
Left dying by the road.

'Tis hard to die in Spring-time,
When the long blue days unfold,

And cowslip-color 'd sunsets

Grow, like Heaven's own heart, pure gold!
Each breath of balm brings wave on wave
Of new life that would lift and lave
My life, whose feet is of the grave,

And mingling with the mould.

But sweet to die in Spring-time,
When these lustres of the sward,

And all the breaks of beauty

Wherewith Earth is daily starr'd,

For me are but the outside show,

All leading to the inner glow

Of that strange world to which I go-
Ed- ever with the Lord.

O sweet to die in Spring-time,
When I reach the promised Rest,

And feel His arm round me —
Know I sink back on His breast \

194

Sunday Thoughts.

[June,

His kisses close these poor dim eyes ;
Soon I shall hear Him say, "Arise,"
Attd, springing up with glad surprise,
Shall know Him, and be blest.

Tis sweet to die in Spring-time,
For I feel my golden year

Of Spring and life eternal
Is beginning even here !
" Poor Ellen ! " now you say and sigh,
" Poor Elleu ! " and to-morrow I
Shall say ' ' Poor Mother ! " and, from the
sky,
Watch you, and wait you there.

SUNDAY THOUGHTS.

HIS TIME IS BEST.

"Now Jesus loved Martha, and her sister,
and Lazarus. When he had heard, therefore,
that he was sick, he abode two days still in the
same place where he was." — John xv. 5, 6.

If we did not know the subsequent
history, this conduct on the part of our
Lord towards thosewhom he lovedwould
seem most inexplicable ; to Lazarus and
his sister it must even then have been
so. He loved them — he knew of the
sore sickness, therefore ■' he abode still
in the same place where he was ! " Per-
haps it may be so even now with you,
0 Christian reader, or with some one as
dear to you as Lazarus was to his sisters.
Your Lord loves your friend, he loves
you, yet he does not take away the sick-
ness. Day by day you tell him in lowly
prayer, " Lord, he whom thou lovest is
sick!" but he does not come to heal;
he does not even say, as he said to the
centurion, " I will come and heal him."
Oh now is the time when faith is tried,
now is the time to trust him, when you
can not see his ways. Remember the
precious history in this chapter ; look
at the empty grave of Lazarus ; there
you read the meaning of the long delay ;
you will there be strengthened to be-
lieve that with you, as with him, " this
sickness is not unto death, but for the
glory ©f God, that the Son of God might
be glorified thereby," "Rest in the
Lord, and wait patiently for him."

ACTIVE AND PASSIVE LOVE.

"Charity suffereth long, and is kind." — 1
Cor. xiii. 4.

Two kinds of charity are here express-
ed ; first, the love of long suffering ; the
meek, patient, unselfish love, that " bear-
eth all things," that "is not easily pro-
voked," that loves on in spite of the un-

worthiness of its object, — forgetting itself
for the good of another, — that neither
faints nor wearies at disappointment of
opposition, but seeks to win by persever-
ing,— this is the first-mentioned manifesta-
tion of love, powerful though passive ; this
is the charity that " suffereth long."' The
second is like unto it, yet different ; it is
not content unless it is active; it goes
about doing good ; it labors for others with
the look of love in its eye, as well as the
warmth of love in the heart ; it finds out
and relieves sorrow; it comforts the mourn-
er ; it enters, like the blessed sunshine, in-
to the house of sadness and darkness, and
imparts its own light and warmth to the
afflicted heart; this is the charity that "is
kind." And where can we' find those two
so united in one as in the life of Him whose
whole life was love ? Behold his meek-
ness and long suffering ! How patiently
he bore with sinners ! Behold his days
spent in doing good to men, his acts of
kindness, his crowning act of self-sacrifice
for our sins, — behold these and say:
"Herein is Lore!"

SUFFICIENCY AND INSUFFICIENCY.

"Not that we are sufficient of ourselves to
think anything as of ourselves ; but our suffi-
ciency is of God. " — 2 Cor. hi. 5.

We are perpetually forgetting this, and
in order to bring the lesson home to us,
God is perpetually bringing to nothing
our best-concerted schemes, in which,
however, we have trusted to no wisdom
but our own. Then we are too apt to go
to the other extreme, and say: "It is of
no use tiying to do good," forgetting on
the other hand that " our sufficiency is of
God." He says to us in a hundred ways :
" Without me ye can do nothing." If we
had Paul's faith we should answer : " I
can do all things through Christ strength-

1865.]

Margery.

195

cning me." But it is only through the
teachings oF experience that we learn these
things, and we are but dull scholars at
best ! And yet there is the greatest corn-
fort in being firmly possessed of the faith
that, weak as we are, we may be strong
in him ; insufficient as we are, we may

find sufficiency in him for all our needs.
For he is our Father, and the wants which
we confess and bewail in every effort that
Ave make to do anything in his service, are
the veiy wants which he, in his fatherly
love and kingly riches, is ever ready to
supply.

§&010 for tfc! 3)0-ttU0.

MARGERY.

Tns bells of the village church had
been ringing sweet and clear, and the
sound was borne on the summer air miles
away, making solemn music, which was
very pleasant to a little lonely heart.

On the stone steps of the farm-house,
watching the shadows, or looking now
and then with a wishful glance toward the
bright sky, sat Margery.

Margery who ? * That was all, she had
no other name,' she said, when strangers
questioned her.

Farmer James had found her one wintry
night on a snow-drift by the road side.
She was warmly wrapped and sheltered
from the storm. Several changes of
clothing, a sum of money, a paper on
which was written 'Margery,' were in a
basket near. She had been kept by the
farmer's wife, who hoped some day to be
rewarded, and who at first built many air-
castles, which had for their foundation the
coming of Margery's rich friends. She
was sure they were rich she said, for the
child's clothing was fine and soft, and the
lace upon the little dresses was worth
more than her best Sunday gown.

But as years passed and these unknown
persons gave no sign, she grew weary of
her charge, and by degrees indifference
gave way to actual unkindness.

Poor little Margery, what had she done,
and why was she so unlike the happy
children whom she sometimes met ? She
often wondered, as she did that Sunday af-
ternoon, sitting in the sunshine, how
many miles off heaven was, and whether
she could walk there if she tried ? " I wish
I knew," she said. " I wish I knew which
road to take, and had somebody to go
with me, for I am so tired of living here !"

Little children who, with folded hands,
say your, " Now I lay me down to sleep,"
who are laid to rest by loving hands, with
your mothers' good-night kisses on your

lips — little happy childen— how blest are
you who read wonderingly of this child,
whose life was so unlike your own !

Margery had been taken once by a kind
neighbor with her children, to the village
Sunday-school. There she heard, for the
first time of a beautiful place called heav-
en, the home of God and his angels. The
good old minister was talking of Jesus, of
the little ones whom he had blest while
on earth, whom he still loved in heaven,
where after death good children would go
to be shining angels in the sky.

Margery went home like one in a hap-
py dream. She scarcely heard the scold-
ing words that Mrs. James poured out
like a torrent. She should not always have
to be scolded and beaten. She should not
always be tired and lonely. There was
some one who would love her, if she only
could reach him ; there was a beautiful
home if she only knew the way there.

She kept the sweet thoughts in her lit-
tle sad heart ; dreamed of them when she
slept, and took comfort in them as she
went upon her errands day by day, or
tended the fretful child whose mother had
so little pity for her desolation.

One morning when the busy dame
seemed to be in an unwonted mood, more
gentle than she remembered tc have seen
her, Margery took courage and ventured
to ask information on the subject that had
occupied so many of her thoughts.

"If you please ma'am how far is it to
heaven?"

The astonished woman dropped her
iron, putting in danger thereby her good
man's Sunday linen.

" What put that into your head I'd like
to know?"

Poor frightened Margery, for once her
anxiety to hear something of the blissful
home she was determined to seek, gave
her courage.

196

The Child and the Sunshine.

rJune.

" I heard the minister talk about God
in heaven, and I thought if it wasn't too
far and I could find the way I'd like to
get there."

"Well, I never," said Mrs. James, and
turning fiercely upon the child, " Do you
think its a place for the like of you ? be-
cause, if you do you're mistaken, I can
tell you. Try to get there indeed ! I
think you may try! Now just do you
go and shell them peas, and don't let me
hear you talk such foolishness again !"

So the child went out once more into
the shadow that had so long been like a
pall on her heart, and the great hope that
had been as a sunny gleam for a little
while, suddenly faded out of her yearning
heart.

But the longing was still there. Mar-
gery had never been taught a prayer ; she
did not know that God could read her
every thought and wish ; that his eye of
love was always watching over her ; if
she had, she would not have fallen asleep
so often, with her cheek wet with tears,
or have looked around on the meadows,
and up into the sky as then with such a
hungry feeling for love and kindness.

She was alone, as she had often been
on Sabbath days ; no mother's loving fin-
gers fashioned dainty robes for Margery :
"she ought to be thankful" Mrs. James
told her, "to have such decent clothes, it
wasn't every one who would give them to
her — but for her part, she couldn't abide
rags !"

The decent clothes, however, made so
poor a show that she did not choose to
exhibit the child who wore them, to gos-
siping neighbors.

So the little girl staid quietly at home,

alone, as I said before, except that
" Watch," the house dog, moved lazily
after her when she walked about, and
sometimes rubbed his cold nose against her
hand, and wagged his tail, as much as to
say, " Don't fret, here is one friend for
you!"

And the great Friend above all others,
whom Margery did not know, looked
clown upon the lonely child, and saw how
desolate her young life was. So it was,
that but a few more Sabbaths found her
in the accustomed place upon the door-
step, or in the meadow, or looking out at
night, from her little window, at the shin-
ing stars.

There came a time, when a dreadful
fever took from many homes, one and
another, who were sadly missed, and its
fatal touch was laid on Margery, for
whom no one cared on earth, but who
was just as precious in God's sight, as
those whose graves were wet With many
tears.

The bright spirits whom we can not
see, though they are often near, watched
over Margery. A neighbor who had buri-
ed her own little daughter was sitting by
the child at the last, and thinking she
asked for water took it to her : " Isn't it
beautiful, beautiful ?" said the little one,
" I shall get to heaven after all, they've
come to show me the way ! " Isn't it
beautiful ?" and with a smile on her lips,
and a light in her eyes that made her face
gloriously fair, the soul of little Margery
was borne up to the Beautiful Land, and
the songs of the angels welcomed her,
where she could never be sad nor lonely
any more !

M^a»

THE CHILD AND THE SUNSHINE.

Thro' the door-way flowed the stmshine

In a flood of molten gold ;
Like a cataract of Glory,

Down the rifted clouds it rolled.

While a child upon the carpet,
Laughing ran to where it lay,

With his little hands out-reaching, —
Like a dream it fled away.

For a cloud had wandered o'er us,
And the blue of heaven had gone,

And the dark wings of the tempest
Beat the sullen air, alone.

Still, the child, his hands extended, —
Gazed upon the vacant floor,

Waiting, watching, for the sunshine
Which would come that day no more.

Happy childhood ! watching^^waiting,
In your sweet and rosy glow,

You will follow Hopes as fleeting,
In the path your feet must go !

And your longing heart will linger
While the Joy-rays dimly burn,

For the warm and pleasant sunshine
That will never more return !

fl.wc^.ow^o^z^.y